Dragon's Conquest
by mindprisoner
Summary: The Civil War has ended in favor of the Imperials, thanks in no small part to the Dragonborn. Ulfric Stormcloak kneels before her, ready to meet his kinsmen in Sovengarde, when he is spared unexpectedly. The Dragonborn finds his Thu'um to be of use to her, and Ulfric is now at her service - as Dragon-bait.
1. Chapter 1

Ulfric knelt on the ground in front of his throne, barely keeping himself up. He was bleeding and burnt and panting hard, glaring up at the dark elf standing proudly before him. One of her Daedric swords outstretched to his neck, the other resting almost impatiently in an offensive position, her mismatched armor set, slightly luminescent from being enchanted, all made her appear to be a goddess of justice, come down from the heavens to punish the fallen Jarl.

"Surrender, Stormcloak," she commanded, red eyes glowing in the dim light. General Tullius and Legate Rikke stood slightly behind her, ready to defend against any last resistance from the rebel army.

Ulfric spat at the elf's feet, a mixture of blood and phlegm. "Never. Never to you, never to anyone. You can kill me, but you will never end the Stormcloaks."

"Kill you?" The elf laughed for a moment, before steeling her scowl. "What would I gain by killing you? One more soul for Alduin to devour? I think not. You, dear Jarl, are coming with me." The elf sheathed her sword and cast a paralyze spell on Ulfric.

"Are you sure this is the best course of action, Dragonborn?" General Tullius asked. He and Legate Rikke had Galmar Stone-Fist pushed on the ground. Legate Rikke stood on his sword hand and had kicked his sword to the wall.

The elf nodded, pulling a length of rope from her pack and securing Ulfric's wrists behind him. "We wouldn't want to give the Sons of Skyrim a martyr, would we? When they see their leader marched across Skyrim in shame, they will lose all morale." She set a sample of wisp wrappings around Ulfric's mouth, keeping him from using the Thu'um.

The paralysis spell wore off, and the Dragonborn pulled Ulfric to his feet. He was led out of the palace, his head still held high despite his defeat. The Dragonborn pushed him through the door and forced him back to his knees. Over the harsh blizzard winds, sounds of combat could be heard throughout the city. "Lok, Vah Koor!" The Dragonborn Shouted. The blizzard subsided suddenly, causing a momentary break in the battle. "Hear me Windhelm!" The Dragonborn continued, enhancing her voice with Thu'um so it could be heard by all. "Ulfric Stormcloak has surrendered! Cease your rebellion at once!"

The group of Stormcloak soldiers that had failed to defend the palace entrance from the Dragonborn and her entourage stood in shock at their fallen leader. While those within sight of the Dragonborn and her captive stopped fighting out of disbelief, those that were not aware of the truth in her words continued to fight. The Dragonborn scowled, and momentarily passed the rope that held tight of Ulfric to General Tullius.

The Dragonborn raised both of her hands, and used the last of her magic to cast a Harmony spell across the city. She took a second to catch her breath before grabbing the rope again and yanking Ulfric to his feet. The Dragonborn led him around the now calm city; Ulfric kept his head held high, but refused to look into any of his soldiers eyes as they stared in disbelief at their fallen leader.

The soldiers were rounded up and taken to the Windhelm Barracks, where the few cells housed around ten soldiers to a cell as the leaders of both the Imperials and the Stormcloaks discussed the terms of surrender.

"You will dismantle all Stormcloak camps by the turn of Sun's Dawn," General Tullius commanded, "And submit all officers to the Empire for trial."

"There are no officers in the Stormcloak army," Galmar Stone-Fist protested. "Everyone is equal. We are all brothers in arms."

"Yes," the Dragonborn mused, "everyone is surely equal to the Stormcloaks. How could I forget, considering the taunting and slurs I experienced whenever I stepped foot near a Stormcloak city?" She casually held the rope binding Ulfric in her lap, Ulfric standing irritably beside her as she lounged on a stone bench around the dining table that had been hastily turned into a meeting spot for the political and military leaders in attendance.

Ulfric burned to speak out. To shout something in support of his loyal soldiers that had fought to the very end. The wisp wrappings' slightly medicinal properties made him feel rejuvenated, but he cursed them, for they kept his mouth sealed shut. Now he was the prisoner of the very regime he despised, the regime he fought against, not just for himself, as the Imperials seemed to be insinuating, but for all of Skyrim! How could they be so blind they could not see that?

Legate Rikke leaned forwards in her seat. "Perhaps if there are no officers, each soldier should be tried for treason against the Empire?"

Galmar scowled. "That..." he sighed, "will be unnecessary. The soldiers, they were just following orders. My orders. I am the only one that deserves punishment."

"Ah, but what about the man who bears the name of the rebellion?" The Dragonborn said. "Are you saying that you were more influential to the Stormcloaks than Ulfric Stormcloak himself?"

Galmar nodded, meeting eyes with Ulfric. "Jarl Ulfric was merely a figurehead to the movement," he explained. "I organized each battle, each camp, everything." Ulfric wanted to protest in defense of his closest friend, his second in command throughout the Civil War, but couldn't. "I beg you, release all of the soldiers."

Rikke leaned to Tullius. "Taking each Stormcloak prisoner could be risky. Every rebel in one place? Sounds like a good way to have the Imperial City overrun to me," she whispered.

Tullius nodded. "The soldiers will be released," he agreed. "However, should they ever incite rebellion again, each of them will be tried for treason."

Galmar nodded, staring at the stone table top. He had few bargaining chips, except for his own life, which he had just given up to save thousands of soldiers. "What of Jarl Ulfric?" He asked at last.

"Well," the Dragonborn said, idling with the rope in her hands, "I was considering keeping him for myself. You Nords allow for this custom, no? Another with the power of the Thu'um will be excellent for Dragon hunting."

Ulfric scowled, fuming at his captor. When she had first shown up in his court, he had recognized her, with well-worn armor and a strong posture as a proud and capable warrior, and offered her a position in the Stormcloaks. She had been grateful, remembering their escape from Helgen, however soon after she had betrayed him, his trust, and joined the Legion. He blamed only himself, wondering why he had been so foolish as to trust a dark elf, when obviously they were nothing but thieves and liars.

And now he was the war prize of a dark elf, a Cyrodillic dark elf at that, and she planned to use him for Dragon bait, it seemed.

The delegation dragged on, with Galmar doing everything he could to leave at least one Stormcloak in charge, with little success. Brunwulf Free-Winter was sworn in as the new Jarl of Windhelm, and messengers were sent to the remaining Stormcloak camps. The Stormcloak soldiers were released from custody after swearing allegiance to the Empire and paying a small fine for their rebellion. Half a dozen soldiers refused to swear allegiance, and were left to rot in the cells until they came across a change of heart.

Brunwulf granted the Dragonborn the Hjerim Estate, a move that made Ulfric's stomach turn, but he was satisfied in knowing that the house had been the site of near a dozen murders, and the mess was still inside the house, as far as he knew. Ulfric watched as the Dragonborn pulled out a coinpurse full nearly to bursting and paid for the house and all its furnishings in full. Most would be left in debt or at the very least penniless after such an exchange, but that damn elf had barely lightened her purse. She even gave Brunwulf a few extra handfuls of gold to help repair Windhelm from the battle!

Ulfric would've scoffed had he been able, but he settled for rolling his eyes. She was obviously flaunting her wealth. No doubt she had come across it through the Thieves Guild, or worse. The Dragonborn dragged him through the city, out the gates, and across the bridge, barely glancing at him. "Would you rather walk to Winterhold, or would you like me to buy you a horse?" She asked when they reached the stables.

He was unable to respond, and instead enjoyed being able to look down upon her. He was tall for a Nord, tall enough that he could stand eye to eye with any High Elf that dared enter his court. The Dragonborn reached up and ripped off the Wisp Wrappings that had kept him mute for hours. Ulfric wondered if he should test his luck and his Thu'um, and attempt to Shout the girl off the bridge. "I will accept no charity from you," Ulfric replied, and turned his head to one side.

The Dragonborn smiled, grabbing his cheek and forcing him to look at her. "We'll have to get you some new armor, too. Can't have you dying to a Dragon just yet, can we? And a new sword; that iron blade can barely cut butter." The Dragonborn summoned a weak frost spell to her hand, knowing it would hurt Ulfric without leaving any lasting damage, as Nords effectively had ice for blood. "I am Nariilu Therel. I have too many titles to count, and with any luck, you will survive traveling at my side."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated :D


	2. Chapter 2

Ulfric sat atop his new horse with the utmost disdain for his situation. The Dragonborn had purchased him a horse, and not just any horse, either. A grand chestnut steed, the most expensive and well bred at the Windhelm Stables, a stallion so fine Ulfric had been eyeing it for his own personal use weeks prior. She rode her own horse slightly ahead of him, a light gray mount that Ulfric believed suited the elf rather nicely; the horse had nearly kicked him when he walked past.

He had sat silently for the entire hour they had been riding, cursing both her name and the old Nord battle customs she used to take him for her own. Nariilu seemed almost happy with the current situation, and hummed a rather obnoxious tune just loud enough to announce their presence to any bandits waiting by the road for an ambush.

The Dragonborn certainly made herself an attractive target to any thieves. She wore multiple enchanted necklaces, and carried not one, but two of the impossibly rare Daedric swords that Ulfric had only heard about in fairy tales. Her coinpurse jingled with every trot, and Ulfric was sure that the pack on her back and the two saddlebags across her horse's back carried more riches.

Suddenly the Dragonborn stopped her horse, and drew her bow. Ulfric's horse stepped nervously, looking towards the bushes beside the road. Nocking an arrow, the Glass bow shimmered with an enchantment that Ulfric couldn't place. She released the string, and the arrow shot forwards too fast to track.

An animal screeched in pain, and then the forest was silent, save for the cold wind blowing. Nariilu hopped off her horse and strode into the bush, pulling out a small dagger as she walked. She emerged barely a minute later with a white pelt draped over her shoulder, and slipped an eye into an alchemy pouch hanging from her hip. "Sabre Cat," she explained, mounting her horse once more, and continuing on the path. "Perhaps we should've washed the blood from your clothes before setting out."

Ulfric scoffed. As if the hours-old blood stained into his clothes had attracted the beast more than her clanking and jingling and humming. "Perhaps," Ulfric retorted, "if you learned to silence yourself, the beast wouldn't have found us." The Dragonborn rolled her eyes.

"So, the fallen Jarl speaks."

"I have many words for you, elf."

"Speak then!" Nariilu dared. "The road to Winterhold is long, and silence is boring." Ulfric fumed, not sure where to begin with his grievances. "Well?"

"You are not worthy of my words," Ulfric finally said, turning up his nose. "You only bested me by outnumbering me and using your dirty Elven Magic."

The Dragonborn laughed. "Outnumbering you in skill, perhaps! Please, half the Mercenaries in Skyrim could best you in swordsmanship." She laid the pelt over her horse's neck, allowing it to dry.

"I'd like to see them try."

"Of course you would," Nariilu snorted, drawing one of her Daedric swords. "Surely, you are the best warrior in all of Skyrim." Ulfric kept silent, knowing that anything he dared say would be used against him. "I have no doubt that you could best any challenger that has the gall to think themselves worthy of your battle prowess. Your blade would run them through before they could even get a single word out! Obviously that was why I was able to defeat you sword to sword whilst the General and Legate were occupied with your second in command, o great Jarl.

"Oh but wait! I forgot to address my use of 'dirty Elven Magic!'" The Dragonborn took a second to smirk at Ulfric. "My armor must be what you speak of, since besides a simple paralysis spell after your defeat, I refrained from magic or the Thu'um in our duel! Of course, these shameful enchantments gave me quite the unfair advantage. How could anyone be expected to win against a cheating Dunmer with armor enchantments? You're right, Jarl, my swordsmanship was certainly influenced by the Magica-enhancing enchantments on my armor. I should've worn regular, unmodified clothes as you do, that is the best attire to wear in a war."

There was a pause, and all was silent, save for the regular trot of the horses. "Are you finally finished?" Ulfric finally asked. If the Dragonborn was always this talkative, Ulfric decided he would rather fall on his own sword than listen to her nasal Cyrodiilic accent at all hours of the day.

"For now," Nariilu replied, "but you will be getting armor. And not that worthless hide and iron your soldiers are so fond of wearing."

"I have a set of steel armor back in Windhelm, but seeing as I was gagged until we left, I lacked the chance to tell you." She would've known this if she wasn't in such a rush, Ulfric thought, but kept it to himself. Honestly, Ulfric couldn't think of a time where he ever saw Nariilu listen to anyone, even when she was bound and sentenced to death in the Imperial prison wagon. The Imperials nearly had to tie her to the headblock. Miracle she didn't end up like that coward horse thief, really.

Nariilu laughed. "Steel? Bah, my children can cut through that with their training daggers. You prefer heavy armor, yes?" She waited for a small nod. "Good. I'll forge you a nice set of ebony as soon as we reach Winterhold."

Had Ulfric been walking, he would've stopped in his tracks. "You, an armorer? Don't humor me." He ignored the comment about children. Ulfric could only imagine the hell of meeting her family. They were probably just as headstrong as the Dragonborn.

"Yes, I learned the trade back in Cyrodiil. It was much cheaper to make my own weapons and trinkets to practice enchanting on," Nariilu said, eyeing the peaks of the cliffs lining the road. I like to think I've improved quite a bit."

Ulfric whispered a small prayer to the Nine to keep him safe with this overly confident elf.

"Speaking of, I'll have to enchant it, too. Can't have unenchanted armor."

Ulfric rolled his eyes. It was bad enough she'd already captured him using the ancient Nord traditions, which she'd no doubt learned through desecrating a barrow. Bah, if the Dragonborn had paid any attention in the past months, she would've learned that Nordic warfare had evolved from 'capture and humiliate your enemy' to 'take no prisoners'. As if Nord culture mattered to an elf. And now she felt the need to to ramble on like some gossiping housewife.

"Have you ever fought a dragon before?" Nariilu mused.

"Not everyone goes around hunting for death as you do," Ulfric replied.

The Dragonborn smiled. "When one attacks, aim for its stomach. Its scales are weakest there."

"Dragons can fly," Ulfric pointed out. "I don't have a bow."

Nariilu huffed. "Well, we can't do anything about that out in the middle of the wilderness, can we? Please, try not to die until we reach Winterhold. Getting eaten by the first dragon you encounter will not be good for whatever reputation you still have."

"I've fought dragons before," Ulfric protested.

"I don't count Helgen," the Dragonborn replied. "Neither one of us did much fighting. Lots of running away, though. No shame in staying alive to fight another day."

Ulfric scowled. He remembered Helgen very differently, without all the cowardice Nariilu described. He was distracted from his thoughts by a loud screech, echoing off the mountain faces. "By the Nine, what was that?"

"A dragon," Nariilu said, drawing one of her swords. "There's a lair somewhere in those mountains that I just can't find. Every time I travel this road, I get attacked around here." Ulfric noticed the large bones at the side of the road. The Dragonborn stopped the horses and hopped off, cutting the rope binding Ulfric's wrists. Ulfric squeezed the spots where the ropes had rubbed him raw. "Let's hope it's a weaker one."

Ulfric dismounted his horse, and Nariilu led both of the horses behind a rock formation, tying them both to an outcropping. The dragon roared again, and Ulfric drew his steel sword. The Dragonborn wordlessly handed him one of her daedric swords. Ulfric sheathed his own sword and gave Nariilu's a few practice swings.

"You remember how the Greybeards always stressed meditation and peace with Shouting?" The Dragonborn asked, drawing her bow. Ulfric nodded. "Rip the dragon apart with your Voice." The two flinched against the latest roar; it was so loud snow fell off the sparse vegetation.

A dragon circled overhead once and landed on the peak of a cliff overlooking the road. It's scales were the color of dried blood, and it stopped to stare down the two with a gaze that sent a shiver through Ulfric's spine. Beside him, Nariilu sighed. "It's one of the powerful ones. Stay behind me," She announced.

"Dovahkiin," the dragon hissed, leaning off its perch. " _Hi fen dir_."


	3. Chapter 3

Ulfric was slightly offended with how little the dragon seemed to care aggbout his presence. It was only aiming its attacks at the Dragonborn, it's fiery breath melting the snow on the road, and just barely missing Nariilu, who spent an awful amount of time dodging.

The dragon took to the sky just as Ulfric managed to climb up to the ledge the dragon was resting on. The force of the dragon's powerful wings knocked him off balance, and Ulfric fell back. He cussed loudly, angry that his attack had been denied. The Dragonborn shot arrow after arrow at it; the dragon didn't seem to be affected in the slightest.

Nariilu quickly slung the bow over her back, hands glowing with Destruction magic, and she charged up a spell. She fired off an ice spear, hitting the dragon on the wing. The dragon stuttered mid-air and switched to a hover, Shouting at the Dragonborn. She stumbled back; the Unrelenting Force Shout had caught her off guard. She had been expecting another Fire Breath Shout.

The dragon landed next to her, and raised its clawed wings to cut Nariilu in half. " _Feim, Zii Gron_!" She Shouted, just before the dragon's attack connected. The claws passed through the Dragonborn as she became translucent. The Dragonborn scurried out from under the dragon, her form returning as she readied another spell.

Ulfric saw his chance, and sprinted off the low cliff, landing on the dragon and plunging the sword into it's back. The daedric weapon slid through a chink in the scales and was buried near to the hilt. Nariilu's second ice spear hit the dragon in the throat, and the beast screeched in pain, flying off again.

As soon as Ulfric realized what was happening, he dropped low to the dragon's back and held tight to the sword hilt. The cold air whipped past his face as the dragon circled, roaring fire down towards the Dragonborn.

The Dragonborn never was the best shot with a bow and arrow, not that she would ever admit it. Nariilu of course could hit a target as large as a dragon four times out of five, but she had learned to aim in Skyrim's crypts, against stationary Draugr. The only moving targets the Dragonborn could reliably hit, even those as large as a small house, were those running straight for her. She cursed Ulfric's name as she nocked arrow after arrow, sure that if she used a spell Stormcloak would be killed from being in such close proximity to the dragon. Nariilu wondered if she had a better chance of killing him with a stray arrow than with a powerful spell.

This was definitely divine payback for showing off earlier with the sabre cat. One small detect life spell just to find the thing sleeping peacefully near the road, and Nariilu had innocent blood on her hands, especially after she skinned the damned thing. And Stormcloak hadn't even been all that impressed! What a waste, she thought. Perhaps if she managed to kill this dragon he'd warm up to her.

Nariilu became even more impatient with each missed shot. The dragon seemed to taunt her, and although she could not understand what it was saying to her, she decoded the message behind it's decreased attacks perfectly. 'This is the mighty Dovahkiin? I've never been less impressed."

If only Stormcloak would just think before he acts! Jumping on a dragon's back, no sane person would ever be so reckless. Nariilu thought back to the stories of Skyrim's berserkers; monstrous warriors whose battlerage rivaled that of the orcs. Certainly, even walking near the Companion's Hall in Whiterun and listening to the sounds within confirmed those tales.

The dragon seemed to be closing in for another attack, it seemed. Nariilu scowled; she hadn't caught her breath since her last Shout. If the dragon tried to gut her again– Nariilu shoved the thought from her mind and finally hit the dragon that was hovering in front of her.

She had no time to celebrate her success. Nariilu dived out of the way to avoid the dragon's deadly bite as it dived down and landed on the road hard. She took refuge behind a rock next to the panicking horses as the dragon attempted to roast her alive again. Peeking over the top once the flames had ceased, she saw Ulfric standing tall on the dragon, stabbing it relentlessly.

"Get off it, fool!" She yelled, throwing her bow aside as she jumped in position to ready another spell.

Ulfric glanced up, and froze. Nariilu was glowing with pure Magic channeled around her body. Blue light glinted off the dragon's scales as the Dragonborn radiated brighter and brighter as she charged her spell. At the last second, Ulfric remembered to throw himself from the dragon just as the Dragonborn cast her spell. He fell hard into a half-melted snowbank, feeling a cold blast on his back.

Ulfric protected his head and neck with his hands and pressed his body further into the snow. Sharp points of pain relentlessly bombarded his body and the howling wind blocked any sounds from reaching his ears. This level of magic–Ulfric hadn't seen anything like it in decades.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the spell's effects seemed to fade. Ulfric cautiously stood up, not hearing any wind, or dragon roars, or much of anything. The Dragonborn had collapsed to her hands and knees in front of the limp dragon. She was breathing in uneven pants, and kept her gaze square on the dragon and sword clutched tight, seemingly in case the dragon was simply faking death.

The dragon burst into an array of colors and dissolved in front of Ulfric's eyes. The colors collected and streamed into the Dragonborn; Ulfric assumed that was what it looked like when she 'ate' a soul. The Dragonborn tensed up as the soul came close, then relaxed once the dragon was nothing more than a pile of bones and the sword Ulfric managed to stick into its back had clattered to the ground.

"Get a potion," the Dragonborn ordered through clenched teeth. "In the saddle bag."

Ulfric walked with little urgency. "My injuries hardly require a potion," he answered. It was half a lie. The dragon's scales had scratched his torso and legs through his clothes, and whatever spell she cast at the end of the battle would likely leave him sore for days. A potion would hasten the recovery time, if not outright fix his minor injuries.

The Dragonborn rolled onto her back and pressed her hands to her abdomen. "It's not for you." Blood flowed freely from a rip in her cuirass that left the bottom half hanging loosely from the chest piece. An undershirt was quickly soaked red. "Bring me a health potion or a magicka potion; I don't care."


	4. Chapter 4

Ulfric hurried his pace and spent, in his opinion, too long calming down the horses. He rummaged through the saddle bags and pulling out a few of the more promising looking potions. Of course none of them were labeled; Ulfric frowned as he clutched the well worn bottles, some of them had long thin cracks running up and down the glass.

He hesitated before turning back to the Dragonborn, who was cursing under her breath and clutching her stomach to keep from expanding a small pool of blood beneath her. Ulfric wondered if saving her life was worth it; he was in servitude to her, and if the Dragonborn died, he could easily dispose of the body without anyone ever knowing. Dragons were dangerous, everyone with half a mind in Skyrim, hell, probably everyone across Tamriel by now, knew that much. And someone who dares to seek them out would surely run out on luck eventually. With her death, Ulfric would be free.

Free to do what? Ulfric had lost a war, and the way General Tullius glared at him during the surrender made him worry about fates worse than death. The Empire was practically owned by the Thalmor, and despite years since his escape, Ulfric still had nightmares about the things those elves did to get him to talk. If he was lucky, they'd give him a quick death on the executioner's block. If he wasn't– Ulfric shuddered to think about it.

Skyrim was too small a province to successfully disappear into the wilderness. Ulfric supposed he could join a bandit troop or try and escape to another province. Both sounded equally repulsive. Ulfric scowled. As much as he hated it and her, the Dragonborn was his best bet. He clenched his fists around the bottles and bit his tongue as he made his way to the Dragonborn.

He helped her sit up and held out the potions to her. She briefly eyed the bottles, and then grabbed one that was so covered in residue it was nearly opaque, ripping the cork off and chugging it in seconds. The Dragonborn tossed the bottle aside and grabbed another, downing it the same as the first.

She shuddered and pushed Ulfric away, lying back on the road. Nariilu squeezed the opening in her stomach together as the potion sped up her healing process and scar tissue formed between the skin, leaving a thick pink line. Her hands lit up yellow as she activated what Ulfric recognized as a weak healing spell, and some of the scar tissue faded to blend in with her dark grey skin.

"Thanks," Nariilu muttered, lying still on the ground, half because of the paralysis effect one of the potions carried, and half because she couldn't believe she let herself almost die. Nariilu had been too busy concentrating on her Blizzard spell, something she had only successfully cast twice before, and never in a combat situation, to notice the dragon's clawed wing making a pass for her. Even better, that one spell used up all her magicka, and so she had to rely on Stormcloak to save her life.

No doubt she could've taken that dragon by herself. Stormcloak's dragon riding stunt had cost ample opportunity to take down the dragon with more practiced spells. Who in their right mind would ever try and ride a dragon? No wonder he'd attempted to fight the Empire; Stormcloak completely lacked common sense. "We need to keep moving," Nariilu said once she felt the paralysis begin to lessen.

Ulfric considered offering her a hand while watching her struggle to push herself up. He decided against it; no reason to get friendly with her just because they were traveling together. The Dragonborn made it to her feet and stumbled to the horses, gently patting their necks before bringing them around. She jumped onto her horse and managed to sit up without falling off, a feat Ulfric would've thought impossible a few seconds prior. Ulfric mounted his horse, which he noticed was still tied to the Dragonborn's.

The next hour was deficient of talk, except quiet grumbling from Nariilu as she dug through her saddlebags. Ulfric was impressed both with how she managed to turn herself around backwards mid trot, and how much junk she had managed to shove in the bags. The Dragonborn inspected a rusted plate she pulled out, and promptly threw it into the bushes off the road. Ulfric watched as she threw out other items in a similar manner.

"Strange how many things you just seem to end up with," the Dragonborn finally spoke, holding a sprouting potato in her hand. "I believe I got this from a man in the Reach, after bringing him a Dwarven dagger."

"Interesting," Ulfric replied, not the least bit interested.

"Of course, no telling why he was so desperate for a Dwarven dagger. Do you want this?" She held out the potato to Ulfric, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. Nariilu chucked the potato off the cliffs they were rounding, trying in vain to reach the ocean. She went back to reviewing the contents of her bags. "You can't take three steps in the Reach without coming across something Dwarven. Or Forsworn."

Their progress on the road had slowed considerably. Deep snow covered the road, and more was gently falling. Nariilu pulled out a worn-looking cloak and pulled it about herself. Her chest plate had been enchanted against the cold, but with half of it on the ground miles back, the enchantment had gone null. She looked around for any landmarks, but found few save for the cliffs they were traversing.

Stormcloak new exactly where they were, she was sure of it. She could practically feel his contemptuousness radiating in waves from his person. It was justified, of course, given that Nariilu was his captor, but it was still unwelcome. All of her previous traveling companions had enjoyed banter on the road, even the ones that seemed to hate her very being, like Stormcloak did. She was going to die of boredom if they didn't make it to Winterhold soon.

Perhaps J'zargo would accompany them on future travels. He could reverse the depressing effects of Stormcloak's mood a thousand times. Wouldn't hurt to have such a powerful mage at their side, even if he was inexperienced and prone to collateral damage. Nariilu scoffed at the mental image of Stormcloak having his beard singed off by the Khajiit mage.

"Do you know any songs?" Nariilu asked, doing her best not to sound desperate for something to do. With her packs cleared fully out save for necessities, there wasn't much more to keep her busy.

"I'm not singing," Ulfric stated flatly.

"Why not? Aren't Bard tales the cornerstone of Nordic culture?" The Dragonborn idly fiddled with the fraying edges of her cloak.

"Do I look like a Bard to you?"

"Well, the Bard's College in Solitude does try to recruit everyone withing shouting distance..."

Ulfric tried to focus on anything but the Dragonborn as she rambled on about how she accidentally joined the Bard's College trying to stop a Necromancer. He was certain the tale was exaggerated beyond belief. Ulfric could not get to wherever they were going soon enough. Sure, the Dragonborn had said Winterhold and they were close enough to the city, but he wouldn't be surprised if they suddenly turned around and headed for Black Marsh on a whim.

Anything to stop her incessant lecturing, really. Ulfric gauged they had less than an hour until they passed the first buildings into Winterhold. Well, the only buildings. Ulfric kept urging Korir to rebuild the city, to strengthen its garrison, but he was always too busy condemning the mages up at the College for anything that dared go wrong in the hold, which was usually quite a lot. Lot of good the mages were for the city during the war. Korir arrived in Windhelm with his arm half cut off and nothing but the clothes on his back, and the first thing he said was to denounce the mages.

No telling what had happened to the old man. Ulfric hadn't seen him at negotiations, or in what little he got to see of Windhelm after the fighting had ended. It felt like a lifetime ago the Stormcloaks lost the war, even though it had been less than a day.

"Finally!" The Dragonborn exclaimed. She pointed off near the horizon to small buildings barely distinguishable from boulders in the moderate snow and early twilight. The buildings were dwarfed next to the massive stone castle of Winterhold College. Its magical beacons reached high into the clouds, looking just as fragile as the broken stone bridge connecting the city to the College.

The pair turned the corner on the last cliff and the road began to descend to sea level, spreading out towards Winterhold.


	5. Chapter 5

The Winterhold guards and a handful of Imperial Legionnaires stopped to stare at the pair. Ulfric held his head high, staring just above the tops of heads. Two of the Legionnaires snickered to themselves; the city gossip for months would be based around these few moments. Small villages tend to cling to the most unusual happenings until something else went on. Ulfric Stormcloak, the proudest of the Jarls being led in on horseback by the Dragonborn would not quickly leave the citizens' minds or mouths.

The Dragonborn dismounted her horse and handed the reins to a man leaning on the rails of The Frozen Hearth. Snow had drifted, covering most of the porch save for the area he stood. "I see you brought company," he mentioned, taking the reins. Nariilu waved a hand, motioning for Ulfric to dismount as well.

"Just watch the horses until I return from the College," Nariilu responded, slipping a few coins into Dagur's waiting palm. She grabbed the saddle bags and slung them over her back, hunching slightly with the weight. "Any interesting news?"

"I heard the Imperials won the war." Dagur nodded his head in acknowledgment of the fallen Jarl. Dagur had never been fond of the Empire, and would have actively supported the rebellion had he believed them to have any chance against the sheer numbers and might of the Imperial Army. He hoped to convey at least his support in his small gesture.

Ulfric nodded back, lifting his chin higher. The College was certainly not a place he ever wanted to set foot in, but his alternatives were few in the tiny town, and the Imperial soldiers present likely lacked hospitality towards the man who bore their enemies' name. Staying at the inn would not be the most discreet of options, leaving him open to attack or harassment from soldiers or citizens.

"An astute observation, Dagur. Wisdom certainly comes with age," Nariilu smirked, shifting under the saddle bags. "Come on, then, Stormcloak." She strode off towards the stone ramp leading to the College bridge. Ulfric sent one last glance to Dagur and followed the Dragonborn.

Nariilu used one hand to keep herself from sliding down the snow-slick ramp, ascending in an awkward crawl. She knew she looked much less than dignified, but few could appear stately in her position. Ulfric, in contrast, was well practiced in traversing the smooth worn stones of Windhelm, especially unencumbered from the luggage the Dragonborn carried, and climbed the ramp with little to do, his easy gait a stark contrast to the Dragonborn's clumsy plod.

A high elf woman waited for them at the top of the ramp. She greeted Nariilu with a smile and let her pass without a word. "Stop," She ordered, holding a hand out to Ulfric's chest. "This place is a safe haven for mages throughout Skyrim. As far as I've heard, the Stormcloaks aren't too fond of magic." Nariilu paused and looked back.

"It's not the magic that concerns me," Ulfric replied. Mages had a tendency to get themselves into situations that couldn't easily be escaped, and more often than not caused harm through their carelessness. Magic was immensely powerful and useful, in the right hands. Ulfric remembered seeing most magic being cast by the wrong hands.

The elf crossed her arms and looked him up and down. "Perhaps," she mused. "What brings you to the College?"

"I am traveling with the Dragonborn, and the Dragonborn traveled to the College," Ulfric said. No need for her to know the full truth about his situation. The few who knew, the better, although he suspected most of Tamriel would be privy to his capture by next Tirdas.

The Dragonborn sighed. "Let him in, Faralda. I'm keeping close watch on him; no harm will come to the College or the students." She lowered the saddle bags to the ground. "We won't be staying long."

Faralda narrowed her eyes. "I still have to assess his magical ability. A small test, customary, of course," Faralda said, a small smile curling at her lips. Nariilu frowned. She was fully expecting to have to slide back down the ramp and rent Ulfric a room at The Frozen Hearth. Divines only knew what kind of trouble Ulfric would find himself in with the Legionnaires. Boring posts led to extreme mischief. "A Flame Atronach is a simple and vital Conjuration spell for those with potential."

Ulfric was certain she was choosing spells for her own amusement. No novice mage he had ever heard of new conjuration spells! Then again, Ulfric never made it a priority to acquaint himself with mages, much less Conjurers. "I'm not familiar with that spell."

"Hmm, quite a predicament." Faralda dramatically tapped her chin. "I could teach it to you; I am rather eager to see the great Ulfric Stormcloak summon an atronach."

"By the Nine, Faralda, stop your mocking! Stormcloak, just Shout at the damn seal," Nariilu said. Faralda opened her mouth to protest. "Don't you start; you let me in just fine with the Thu'um."

"Oh, let me have a bit of fun," Faralda replied. "Standing out here all day in the snow is a rather mundane life." She waved her hand dismissively at Ulfric. "Go ahead and Shout. Entertain me, however briefly."

Ulfric took a step towards the seal. He hadn't Shouted since the beginning of the Civil War, against Torygg, despite the Dragonborn's urging during the dragon fight. Of course, accidentally riding a dragon had taken precedence, and any and all Shouts he knew had slipped his mind. A deep breath, a reminder of the meaning of the words, a quick prayer to Talos, the release– "Fus!" Ulfric shouted at the seal, catching Faralda's feet in the blast halfway on purpose. She stumbled to catch her footing as the seal glowed blue.

"Yes, that will do," Faralda said, smoothing her robes down as the seal deluminated. "Nariilu, I trust you will keep him out of trouble, and out of Ancano's sight?"

"Of course," the Dragonborn replied, picking up the saddle bags again. She planned to either hide him in her dorm the whole time she was there, or not lose sight of him for a second. Nariilu was not entirely certain how Ancano would respond to seeing Ulfric Stormcloak in the flesh, but she could made an educated guess or two. The pair would be at each other's throats in seconds.

Ulfric watched as the Dragonborn made careful steps across the half-collapsed bridge, and followed a few paces behind with sure footing. "How do you feel about hiding in a wardrobe for a few hours?" Nariilu asked once they had past the narrowest part of the bridge. She had wanted to keep the Thalmor's presence in the College a secret from Stormcloak for as long as possible, but he was smart enough to figure things out from the limited information she and Faralda had provided him with. At best, Stormcloak would keep quiet and stay hidden for their visit; at worst, he would be killed, and Nariilu wasn't sure how many times she could convince someone to spare his life in one day.

Ulfric would rather burn the entire College down, but seeing as the entire structure was made out of stone, he would have to settle. "I would prefer not to," he said.

"Hmm, thought so," the Dragonborn hummed. "Just keep your head down and stay close to me. Ancano usually follows Archmage Aren around at all hours of the day; he shouldn't be anywhere near the Hall of Attainment." Really, she would rather have Ancano attack Stormcloak or vice versa, just so she would have an excuse to kill him.

The main courtyard was empty, much to Nariilu's relief. She led Ulfric into the Hall of Attainment, gesturing him to be silent, and gently closing the heavy doors to keep anyone from noticing their presence. She padded into her dorm room, thankful for the muffle enchantment on her boots, and gingerly set down her saddlebags. The Dragonborn opened the furthest wardrobe and removed a few sets of robes, placing them on the bed. Ulfric followed her in, not nearly as silently, and sized up the wardrobe.

"No," Ulfric said under his breath, shaking his head. Wardrobes were not made for anyone, save for children playing hide and seek, to stay in for an extended period of time. Ulfric, being much larger than the average child, could not see how to comfortably remain in the wardrobe, especially with the doors closed. He couldn't see any benefit at all to being in the wardrobe to begin with; if Ancano, who Ulfric had guessed to either be a Thalmor or overzealous Imperial mage, wanted to pick a fight, he would rather simply get it over with.

"Come, now, it's very simple." Nariilu stepped into the wardrobe, spun around once, and then stepped back out. "See?" Ulfric crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine, then. Die, for all I care. If Ancano finds out you're here, he won't be as merciful as I was." She picked the robes back up and returned them to the wardrobe, slamming it shut. The Dragonborn slung a satchel over her shoulder and stomped out of the Hall before Ulfric could respond.


	6. Chapter 6

Nariilu refused to turn back and grab one of the robes or her old set of leather armor she had in her room, no matter how cold her exposed stomach was. A dramatic exit required one to leave with finality, at least for a time. She pulled her cloak tighter around her and headed towards the Arcanaeum. It would be a relief to finally rid herself of the books Urag had requested. It was enough trouble getting them; Nariilu hoped Urag would ignore a few stray bloodstains.

She took the stairs two at a time as she thought of ways to win Stormcloak's trust, most of them involving some sort of situation where she saved his life. Nariilu then remembered that he had seemingly no sense of self preservation, and was arguably the most reckless man she had ever met. She hoped his callousness was a result of the day's earlier events, seeing as how he had lost a war and been taken prisoner, and that he would eventually warm up.

Casting a small flame spell, Nariilu hoped she would warm up soon, too.

Ulfric watched the Dragonborn leave and then waited nearly a full minute before going through her belongings, a feat which he thought commendable. As famous as the Dragonborn was becoming around Skyrim, he had only spoken with her briefly on two occasions before that morning. Once, in Helgen, when he and the other Stormcloaks were making their escape. Ulfric knew she had a death wish from the moment they had to physically drag her inside the fort to stop her from hurling spells and foul language at the beast.

He carefully slid out each drawer on the smaller wardrobes, noting the contents. Quills, ink, parchment, dried flowers, and a few soul gems. The only thing interesting Ulfric found was an entire drawer filled with dozens of iron daggers. Some glowed with various enchantments he couldn't place, and others looked to be much sharper than the rest. Ulfric slipped a few of the more deadly looking ones into his cloak, deciding that mentioning the drawer would be more trouble than it was worth.

Ulfric moved to the tall wardrobes, first opening the one that the Dragonborn suggested he hid in. Sifting through the robes bundled at the bottom, he found a few small pouches with various ingredients, mostly long dead crumbling bees. Moving to the second wardrobe, Ulfric found pieces of battle-worn armor, all looking like it had met a violent end. An iron chest plate had a large gash going from shoulder to hip; a leather helmet was burned and half missing; an elven gauntlet was coated so much dried blood almost none of the original metal could be seen.

None of it was in any usable condition, and Ulfric wondered why the Dragonborn bothered to keep it instead of throwing it out or salvaging the material. He sat on the bed, pulling over the two saddlebags, noticing that they were quite a bit heavier than he anticipated. Opening the lighter one, he found the potions from earlier. The Dragonborn had placed the empty vials back in the bag, no doubt for later use. Ulfric made a mental note to never drink a potion she offered him; mixing the effects of different potions, even from reused vials, was known to cause paralysis or even outright poisoning.

Reaching further in the bag, he found a layer of broken glass covering loose sheets of parchment. Careful not to grab a shard of glass, Ulfric pulled out the stack of parchment. It was stained various colors; a potion vial had broken in the bag at some point. He leafed through the sheets, which Ulfric quickly realized were notes and letters the Dragonborn had received in her travels, as well as a well worn map.

Ulfric glanced over the letters. A vast majority of them were various complaints about the Thu'um or requests to rough someone up, but one caught his eye. A waste of ink, probably from a child, Ulfric mused, looking over a handprint stamped on a page. He pulled the parchment from the stack, meaning to check the back for anything interesting when two short words caught his eye at the bottom of the page. 'We know.'

He frowned. The vagueness of the message left his mind wandering. A threat, blackmail, or even a joke amongst friends? It had certainly been in the bag for some time, judging by the wrinkles and residue on the parchment. Ulfric rolled it up and put it in one of his cloak pockets for later investigation. Perhaps something in the other bag would lead to an answer, he thought.

Ulfric pulled the bag into his lap, unlatching the top flap. "Looking for something?" A rough voice came from behind him at the door. Ulfric jumped up, throwing the bag to the ground and drew his sword.

Urag had not ignored the bloodstains, instead he threatened Nariilu with expulsion and demanded payment for the damage. However, past the initial anger, Urag had been grateful for the books, seen in a thinly concealed smile as he turned to put two of them in a locked bookcase. He handed her Night of Tears with a request to take it to Tolfdir. Nariilu was almost out the door when she was called back to receive a stack of textbooks "as a reward", though the sheer weight of the thick books made her think otherwise.

She left the textbooks at the top of the stairs, swearing to remember to get them later and knowing that she would likely break that promise. She found Tolfdir staring intently at the Eye of Magnus, which was bathing the Hall of the Elements in a cold blue light. "I see you've managed to get that thing out of Saarthal," Nariilu said.

"The Eye is quite interesting," Tolfdir replied, not taking his gaze off the Eye. "These markings, you see, they aren't Elven, or Daedric, or even Ayleid! I've never seen anything like it."

The Dragonborn held out Night of Tears to him. "Urag said you might be interested in this." She gave him the book. "I'm not sure, but it seems to imply that Saarthal was attacked because the Elves learned about the Eye's presence."

Tolfdir took a few minutes to skim the contents, and begun to nod. "This is a highly plausible theory, given how the Eye is radiating magical energy. Of course, this would also mean that the Merethic–"

"Yes, yes, we're all astonished by your research." Nariilu turned and scowled as Ancano approached, his hands clasped behind him and his constant bored expression showing something more akin to frustration. "The Apprentice is coming with me."

"I'm sure you can see we're in the middle serious research!" Tolfdir protested. "We're very near a breakthrough."

"I've no doubt," Ancano replied, casting a look at the Eye. "However, this simply cannot wait."

"The last time I heard that phrase, a dragon nearly leveled Kynesgrove," the Dragonborn said, "so, please, understand if I'm underwhelmed by your news."

"If you must know, there is a Psijic Monk waiting for you in the Archmage's office," Ancano said, tapping his foot rather impatiently.

Nariilu bit her cheek. Of course they would be back, she thought. She couldn't seem to take ten steps without getting caught up in an event of cosmic importance. "Fine." The Dragonborn pushed past Ancano, making sure to make it to the Archmage's door well before he did. Slipping through the door, she caught sight of a hooded figure listening to Archmage Aren ramble about Divines knew what.

The Monk looked up at her. "Ah, good. I am Quaranir, of the Psijic Order." The Dragonborn noted that he seemed fully opaque, unlike the Monk she had met in Saarthal. "You must listen to what I am about to say, for we have very little time."

Nariilu opened her mouth to respond, and quickly shut it again. Ancient orders tended to have important information, but she couldn't figure out why they all seemed to seek her out to do their jobs for them. Well, the Greybeards and the Blades certainly had their reasons.

"The Eye of Magnus is dangerous," Quaranir continued. "The longer it remains in the College, the more of a risk there is. If you do not discover a way to banish it, or destroy it, you may want to leave this side of Tamriel."

The Dragonborn coughed. "What? Why can't you just do it? Or get Archmage Aren to do it!" She gestured violently to the Archmage, and noticed that he had seemed to be frozen.  
Quaranir paused just long enough for the Dragonborn to quiet down. "The future is clouded to us. We cannot tell you what to do, but we do know that whatever must be done must be done by you, as you are bound by many strings of fate." No shit, Nariilu thought. "You must seek out the Augur of Dunlain and decide on your next action." Quaranir waved his hand and the Archmage finished his sentence.

"–such an honor. Oh, here she is now!" Archmage Aren flashed the Dragonborn an encouraging smile.

"Yes, of course. I must be going now." Quaranir turned to leave. His stride was smooth enough to make him appear to float across the floor.

Ancano entered the room with an adequate amount of speed and force to nearly walk into the Monk. "I'm certain you'll tell us of the reason for your interruption?" He said, unfazed by his near collision.

Quaranir easily slipped around him, only barely pausing at the door to reply. "It does not concern you." The door shut behind him, leaving Ancano spluttering as he threw open the door to follow the Monk.


	7. Chapter 7

J'zargo was unconcerned with the Daedric sword the new student had leveled at his neck. To be at the College of Winterhold and still rely on such primitive weapons? Only Nords as brutish as this man would be so bold as to threaten J'zargo, the greatest Khajiit mage in generations. "Is this a challenge?" he asked, running through a list of spells he hadn't had the opportunity to test on a live opponent yet.

"What do you want?" J'zargo nearly rolled his eyes at the man's question. Such a boring thing to ask! New students were generally the worst about being interesting.

"I would like for you to put down your sword," J'zargo replied, "although there are other ways to make you do this." Nariilu certainly wouldn't mind if he gave the man a strong deterrent from any future thievery, J'zargo thought. He couldn't believe he had missed her, though it appeared the Dragonborn was in a rush. In his travels with her, she almost always unloaded her packs first.

"Where did you come from?" Ulfric certainly hadn't heard the door or any footsteps to announce the Khajiit. He was losing his touch. In just as much time as Ulfric took to draw his sword and turn around, a skilled combatant could kill him ten or more ways.

J'zargo actually rolled his eyes at the man's question. "These are the questions that this one wastes time asking? Please, ask something worth my time."

"Do you know who I am?"

J'zargo laughed. "Why should J'zargo care who you are? A thief, perhaps, with how you rummage through things that do not belong to you." The man lowered his sword, still keeping it in a defensive position. "But what would a man who wears clothes as fine as yours have to steal? A thief should aim to blend in with their surroundings, not draw attention to himself as you do. I assume you are a new student, a nobleman looking to finally do something with his boring life, and has come to appreciate the arcane. Do not worry, you will never be better than me, so do not bother trying." There was the very off chance that this man was a companion of Nariilu, but J'zargo firmly remembered her swearing to never put anyone in harm's way again, or to come back within the month.

Ulfric stood still for a moment before sheathing his sword. "Yes, I'm a...new student here. I thought this was my bed." He had considered his options and while going toe to toe with such an arrogant mage would certainly be satisfying, it wouldn't be the least painful option. Besides, he was supposed to be hiding from the Thalmor at the College, and with Elsweyr being a firm member of the Aldmeri Dominion, Ulfric decided not to take any chances.

"You should not go poking where you do not belong," J'zargo said. "A shame it would be to see you expelled or killed before you complete your first lessons." He turned and walked to his dorm. At least Onmund would shut up about being the only Nord at the College. J'zargo wondered if he could convince the new student to test out a few scrolls. He'd probably fixed the explosion problem, but until he was sure, there was no reason for him to risk his own tail, and Nariilu had grown wary of his scrolls.

J'zargo noticed out of the corner of his eye that the student was still standing stiffly in Nariilu's dorm. She never took to kindly to anyone disturbing her things, as Enthir had discovered on her last visit to the College a few weeks ago. It was unlikely that she would visit anytime soon, with that silly war going on, but keeping everything in its place kept her from possibly accusing himself.

Of course, if the new student survived until her next visit, she may agree to try his scrolls. But if he could convince the man to use the scrolls, Nariilu's things would stay in order, and everyone would leave unscathed, except maybe whoever finally did test the scrolls. J'zargo tapped his left foot three times, an old tic for making difficult choices. "You." J'zargo snatched a handful of scrolls off his desk. "These are for you."

Ulfric stared at J'zargo's outstretched hand. He recognized the arcane nature of the scrolls and warily reached out to take them. Ulfric winced as the enchanted parchment touched his hand; the surface was unnaturally warm and gently pulsed with arcane power, almost as if it were alive. "I'm grateful for your gift," Ulfric replied. Scrolls always worried him the most out of all magic. Anyone, even a child, could make them work without training, and he had seen enough warriors hurt themselves or worse after finding a few on a fallen Thalmor.

"Test these. Tell J'zargo what happens," J'zargo said, pointing a finger at the man and smirking, "and J'zargo won't mention this to the Dragonborn. Surely you have heard of her. She kills dragons." He was almost disappointed with how little the man reacted. It likely had something to do with how unenthusiastic most Nords were for anything that couldn't be run through with a sword. Though, given their current positions, J'zargo figured he should be very interesting to the man, seeing as how his hand still twitched on his sword hilt.

Ulfric nodded slowly, waiting for J'zargo to leave. He watched as the Khajiit returned to his desk and slipped a stack of parchment into a bag, along with a quill and ink. J'zargo seemed to have forgotten his presence as he slung the bag over his shoulder, making towards the heavy doors of the Hall. He paused, one hand pressed against the door, and looked back.

"The presence of a novice always makes the lessons more interesting," J'zargo muttered, barely loud enough for Ulfric to hear. He pushed through the door without another glance.

Ulfric watched the heavy door close with a loud bang that reverberated quite well in the round stone room. Seconds later, he watched it reopen and a recently familiar furry head poke around the door.

"Lectures are mandatory, unless this one wishes to be expelled on the first day."

"Yes, of course," Ulfric replied, standing still. It wasn't as if he had any reason to attend; he had every reason not to attend. "I'll be following shortly; I need to move my things to the right bed." He reached for the saddlebag on the bed and fiddled with it until the door closed again. Perhaps the Dragonborn was right about the wardrobe, but Ulfric wasn't about to admit that. He sat back down on the bed and resumed his investigation of the Dragonborn's saddlebags.

Ancano simply could not _believe_ that a Monk of the Psijic Order had refused to talk to _him_ , Eye of the Aldmeri Dominion, one of the highest ranking Thalmor in Skyrim-no, in Tamriel! The sheer _gall_ of anyone to _ignore_ him like that would be met with swift and appropriate punishment, and Ancano planned on administering that with a Firebolt to that pompous Monk's _gut_.

Of _course_ the Hall of the Elements would be empty, save for that _wondrous_ Eye and that _stupid_ excuse for a mage and the College's _talentless_ apprentices. He raised his chin high as he passed through the Hall and into the _blistering_ cold outside. There would _certainly_ be a letter to Elenwen about how he had been _slighted_ by the high and mighty Psijic Order, an affront not just to himself, but to the _entire_ Aldmeri Dominion.

He stomped through the thin layer of snow on the ground- _really_ , what Auri-El forsaken place snowed in First Seed?-and used a Telekinesis spell to blast open the doors of the Hall of Attainment. That was another slight against him, he was sure of it, to put him up with the _obnoxious_ apprentices. Ancano absolutely _loathed_ the College of Winterhold, and he could not believe that the Divines had spared it from turning into nothing more than a bad memory in the Sea of Ghosts along with the rest of the town.

Ulfric had immersed himself in a very interesting letter that described a bar fight in Whiterun that ended up in an affair between the combatants. Most of the letters the Dragonborn had crumpled in her saddlebags were comprised of similar gossip; a Thane had been plotting to poison a Jarl, a court wizard was actually a vampire, a new potion could make anyone do as you say for an hour or so. Mindless gossip that did little but pass the time.

He was pulled back into reality when the door opened, letting in a sharp gust of cold. Ulfric snapped into alert mode; it was doubtful that the students were finished with a lecture after such a short time. He stood and moved closer to the wardrobe, fully ready to swallow his pride and hide from whatever came through the door, and equally as ready to run it through with a sword.

A disgustingly familiar black robe coasted through the door, worn by a tall elf who looked like someone had pissed in his mead. Thalmor.


	8. Chapter 8

Ancano simply could not _believe_ that some insolent whelp had the audacity to grab _him_ , Eye of the Aldmeri Dominion, one of the highest ranking Thalmor in Skyrim-no, in Tamriel! And to put a sword to his neck!? He could already _feel_ the sparks crackle across his fingertips. "I suggest you choose your next action _wisely,_ worm," he spat.

Ulfric wished he could say he was shocked when the Thalmor strutted in, but he had seen far too many of the robed lowlifes since the Great War, and he was proud to say that he had walked away from every shallow grave he left them in. Ulfric watched the elf walk past with barely a glance.

It was pure instinct that led Ulfric to grab the elf and put his blade to his throat. Ulfric gave himself pause when he felt the sword's resistance on skin. His blood was rushing in his ears, deafening his more rational thoughts, all the ones that identified the man as anything but a threat.

"I suggest you choose your next action _wisely,_ worm." The Thalmor spoke up. Ulfric heard his words punctuated by the pop of static; the elf was ready to fight back. Ulfric had always made it a point to never kill in cold blood, especially not without a fair fight. But the lightning dancing across the mage's hands seemed to imply that he was wholly unconcerned about his fate, that he could easily survive having a sword of all things pressed to his neck. Besides, the wisest course of action he could figure was to remove the immediate threat of a dangerous and arrogant Thalmor mage.

Ulfric pressed the sword further into the Thalmor's neck, pulling the harsh serrations of the Daedric weapon to catch on the delicate skin.

Ancano rolled his eyes; as if it was the _first_ time an idiot had tried to kill him. His attacker seemed to be less adept than most, as Ancano had time to not only speak, but to cast a spell. Lightning Cloak was _far_ more than effective against assailants who managed to get into melee range-Ancano cursed himself for being so distracted as to let himself get in such a situation. Ancano had also found over his many uses of said spell that Lightning Cloak at such a short range had a slight paralyzing effect.

He was able to push the attacker off and cast Thunderbolt, another spell that had _delicious_ short range effects, into his attacker's chest. "Did you _really_ think you could kill me?" Ancano sneered, turning to face the fool that had decided to make Ancano's day a little more interesting.

Ancano's eyes widened and his smirk grew as he watched Ulfric Stormcloak sink to the ground. The sketches of him in his Dossier were _astoundingly_ accurate, he noted. Oh, this was _grand._ Arresting _the_ Ulfric Stormcloak would get him out of this frozen excuse for a mage's college; perhaps even to the Imperial City embassy or all the way to Alinor. "Ah, Stormcloak!" Ancano said with a twinkle in his eye. "How goes the war? Last I heard the Imperials were practically on Windhelm's gates." He paused to step closer to Ulfric, watching the sparks of his Lightning Cloak jump to Ulfric's prone form. "You didn't _flee_ , did you?"

Ulfric twitched on the ground, barely able to keep himself on his knees. Every breath came as a shudder, and he was hyperaware of each arc of static that dug deep into his flesh like daggers. Still, he kept tight grip on his sword, swiping at the Thalmor's legs, which the mage easily stepped back from.

"Oh, come, now," Ancano taunted, "surely your precious Talos will save you." Ancano decided to accentuate his words with another Thunderbolt. Ulfric glared up at Ancano, something that he found decidedly unthreatening, given their respective positions. Ulfric opened his mouth to respond, no doubt to defend his worthless deity. Ancano could've laughed at his patheticness. _This_ was the man who led the biggest rebellion in Imperial history? A general and tactician so great a threat he had one of the largest Dossiers in the Aldmeri Dominion?

" _Fus, Ro Dah!"_ Ulfric Shouted, sending Ancano flying back into the wall, his head hitting with a resounding crack.

"-And he said I must find the Augur of Dunlain." Nariilu finished recounting her brief conversation with Quaranir to the Archmage. She really didn't need this, being as close to defeating Alduin as she was. This was another day that he would be devouring souls, getting that much more difficult for her to kill. She would much rather be devouring souls herself, as well; she had a few Words of Power she didn't understand yet, and there were reports of a dragon near Riften.

Archmage Aren tapped his fingers on his forearm. "Hmm. The Augur of Dunlain? I don't see any reason for you to go seek him out. It's much too dangerous."

"Sir, with all due respect, everything I do is much too dangerous," Nariilu replied. She couldn't believe that the Archmage was denying this based on the _danger_ , of all things. Perhaps, she thought, he was hiding something. "Just who is the Augur?"

"A former student of the College who had a habit of sticking his nose where he shouldn't have. He nearly killed himself; though I suspect that would be a better fate," Archmage Aren said, frowning slightly. "He is a warning to keep your research mundane, and your aspirations achievable."

Nariilu sighed. Archmage Aren never had been one for easy, or useful, answers. "I understand, Archmage." She turned left his quarters, starting down the stairs. Tolfdir, perhaps, had a large mouth, and would be more than happy to spill any secret the Archmage didn't want her to know, if she could tear him away from the Eye or a lecture for long enough.

The building suddenly shook, and Nariilu widened her stance to keep from falling over. She was gripped with fear that the College was finally going down with Winterhold, but she heard an echoing voice Shouting in a language she barely understood. _"Stormcloak,_ " She muttered, regaining her pace and leaping down the stairs.

A single word of Unrelenting Force wasn't much; it could take the leaves off a tree or make an opponent search for their footing, but only up to a few feet away. A full powered, practiced one could send everything and everyone that wasn't bolted down flying, cause avalanches, and make even dragons stumble from the next town over.

This had been a full Shout.

Ancano had hit his head hard against the stone wall. He groaned in pain and annoyance; magic was a mental achievement, and being concussed would do nothing to help him. His vision blurred, and he was aware that he had lost concentration on his Lightning Cloak. He cast it again and stumbled to his feet, his hands glowing with magicka that could be used for any number of spells he knew.

Ulfric pulled himself up, relaxing his muscles that were tense from the lightning. He walked towards the Thalmor who was holding his head in his hands and doing his best to stay upright. Ulfric sped up when the elf's body began to crackle a faint purple; a much less powerful spell than he had cast not a minute earlier. Ulfric pushed the sword through the Thalmor's abdomen, the sharp point slipping through his robes and skin with little resistance.

He gasped, then the glow around his body ceased and Ancano fell limp on Ulfric's sword. Removing the sword was much more difficult; the gut hooks performed their job exceedingly well, and caught on just about everything. Ulfric gave up on removing the sword halfway through and sat down; he could still feel the echoes of the lightning bouncing through him.

Ulfric wondered what to do with the body. He certainly couldn't move it, not in his state when he couldn't even pull out the sword. Not to mention the growing pool of blood that would stain the stone floor if it wasn't cleaned up soon, and the clutter of things that had been caught in his Shout. He sighed and moved the Thalmor's robes to mop up some of the blood, it was certainly a start. Ulfric felt the tingling in his body start to lessen; after a few minutes rest, he would be able to deal with his mess.

Nariilu would've likely been pulled into Tolfdir's lecture, had she not been in a full sprint. She pushed open the heavy doors and only slipped once in the icy courtyard before coming to the Hall of Attainment. " _Fus, Ro,"_ she Shouted, opening the doors enough for her to not have to pause and open them herself.

Her eyes immediately focused on the body at the far side of the room with a sword- _her sword_ -sticking out of its abdomen. She was just aware of Ulfric sitting to one side, grasping at his own abdomen. "What," the Dragonborn asked, stepping closer to investigate the scene, "in Oblivion," Ancano's eyes blankly stared at the ceiling, his hair matting with blood that didn't seem to come from the pool beneath him, "did you _do?"_


	9. Chapter 9

The Dragonborn felt her blood run cold as she looked down at Ancano's body. She wasn't upset that he was dead, if anything she was disappointed she didn't get to see him die, or contribute to his death herself. However, Nariilu had seen enough Thalmor bureaucracy in action to know that this would not be without consequences at the very least for the College. More agents would descend as soon as word reached the Embassy, if not more extreme measures.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" She asked, kneeling beside the corpse to search for any signs of life-if she had only given a damn about Conjuration, perhaps she could've revived him? "The only reason the College is able to stay out of the Thalmor's interest is because Ancano only cared to search for secrets where there aren't any; what do you think will happen if they send a competent Agent? Or _worse_!"

Ulfric stood up, wincing in pain. "He tried to kill me," he said plainly. He reached for the sword to try and pull it out again.

"Don't," the Dragonborn said, grabbing his wrist. "It'll make it even harder to clean if you open the wound." She pulled his wrist between them; Ulfric was too tired and apathetic to resist. "How long ago were _we_ in a battle to the death? A day? We're both alive, and neither one of us caused a major diplomatic incident!" She paused. "Alright, that may have been a bad example. But I can't believe I leave you alone for not even an _hour_ , and you go and kill a high ranking Thalmor!"

"Do you support the Thalmor?" Ulfric snarled, pulling his wrist free. "I shouldn't be surprised; the Empire might as well be part of the Dominion-"

"Unlike you, I prefer to think before I act, and I suggest that you don't imply I hate the Thalmor any less than you," the Dragonborn snapped. "Now, I strongly recommend that you start to listen to me, lest your impulses get us _both_ killed. If you had stayed hidden, I wouldn't have to clean up your mess. Somehow." She looked at the body and clenched her fists. Where could she possibly dispose of a where the closest earth was frozen under a foot of snow?

The Dragonborn knelt down and rummaged through Ancano's pockets. She pulled out a few sheets of folded parchment and laid them on a bookshelf, along with a small pouch and a well worn spell book. "What are you going to do? Throw him in the sea?" Ulfric asked, glaring at her. "Should I get a book of elvish funeral rites to read?"

"The sea, that's brilliant!" Nariilu mumbled, moving to his feet. "Stormcloak, grab his shoulders and help me carry this bastard out of here. If we're quick we can get rid of the blood and put everything back before lecture is over, and I can figure out how to avoid political retaliation later." Stormcloak didn't move. "You killed him, and I'll be damned if I have to throw your corpse into the sea, too," Nariilu said. "So, grab his shoulders."

Ulfric moved beside Ancano and slid his hands under his back around the shoulders, feeling his muscles crackle with lightning at the strain of lifting the elf. "What about the sword?" he asked, taking a small step after the Dragonborn lifted up the feet.

"I'll grab it right before we push him over the wall," the Dragonborn responded. "No use making another mess." Blood dripped along their path to the door, and pooled where she had to put his feet down to open the door. Droplets continued to mark the pair's path to the edge of the courtyard, right before the pathway back down to Winterhold began.

They placed his corpse down where it was halfway off the broken walkway. "Would you like to say a few words?" The Dragonborn muttered, pulling the sword out of Ancano's abdomen. Ulfric stepped forwards and kicked the body off the edge, watching as it fell into the churning sea and rocks below. "I couldn't've said it better myself," the Dragonborn said, leaning over as far as she dared to see the body crash against a rock.

She pulled back when the body disappeared under the churning waves, looking at the trail of blood stained the snow a spotty red. The Dragonborn walked back to the Hall of Attainment, shuffling her feet along the path to cover the blood. "Come on, then," she called back to Ulfric. "We don't have long." Ulfric followed her back, kicking snow over spots she had missed. She disappeared inside, Ulfric following a few paces behind.

Nariilu grabbed a set of robes off her bed and placed it over the puddle of blood, wiping up what she could. "Here," she said, standing up and grabbing a clean robe, "I'm going to bring in some snow to help clean up your mess. Keep scrubbing." She dropped the robe on the floor and stepped outside.

"So," Nariilu startled at the voice, casting an Ice Spike at the man who seemingly appeared from nowhere as she exited the Hall, "You threw the body into the Sea of Ghosts?" Archmage Aren didn't flinch; the enchantment on his robes flickered as it absorbed the Dragonborn's spell.

Nariilu relaxed her stance. She cursed herself for believing the Archmage to be foolish enough for her to slip the murder of his 'advisor' past him. She cursed herself again for being so heedless as to even attempt to hide it from him. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I didn't expect-"

" _I_ didn't expect Ulfric Stormcloak to be at the College," Archmage Aren cut her off, "and I certainly didn't expect there to be a death within these walls." His nearly blank expression made him seem almost bored; the only life on his face was a certain spark in his eyes that Nariilu couldn't quite place.

"Sir, I can explain-"

Archmage Aren held up a hand, silencing her. "I don't particularly care for an explanation. Truthfully, I feel you've done the College a favor, at least until the Thalmor find out about this. I hope you at least took Ancano's notes from his robes before you…disposed of him." Nariilu nodded. "Good. We'll need those if we're to keep this from the Dominion."

Nariilu faltered. The Archmage didn't appear to be angry, unless he held the kind of calm fury that grew and grew before it burst. She thought she'd at least get enough time to figure out just who the Augur of Dunlain was before the Archmage expelled her. He hadn't mentioned any punishment, he'd even expressed _gratitude_ , of all things, but a purposeful death, a _murder_ , on College grounds was bound to leave her walking down the bridge in disgrace, even if she wasn't the one who killed. The Archmage moved past her and through the door.

Ulfric ran the robes over the floor in vain; the blood had begun seeping into the porous stone. Cleaning had never been his strong suit; maids in the Palace were paid to clean for him, and military camps and prisons tended not to place an emphasis on the skill. He was sure the robes would form holes before the blood ever lifted. Ulfric doubted the snow the Dragonborn had gone to collect would make any difference, he thought upon hearing the door reopen.

Archmage Aren took a second to take in the sight of Stormcloak on his hands and knees cleaning Thalmor blood with College robes. He could only imagine the series of events that had led to this moment. He murmured a spell, fading the blood from the stones and righting objects thrown by Stormcloak's Shout.

Ulfric looked up when he heard a decidedly male voice, ready to attack again despite his aching body. The Dragonborn stood gently closing the door with her back behind a shorter Dark Elf dressed in robes that could only be described as iridescent. He had seen many enchantments before, rarely on more than one weapon or armor piece on a person, but never had any glowed so brightly and with such color that it seemed to shift the very candlelight in the Hall to twisting blues, reds, purples, greens. It was a garment that demanded attention, though the man's posture and expression did little to support it. Nonetheless, Ulfric rose to his feet to greet the Archmage of the College of Winterhold.

"I believe this meeting is much delayed, Jarl," Archmage Aren said, holding out his hand in greeting. The title nearly made Ulfric wince. "I have little patience for politics, but I will make an exception when the politics end in…well, this. I'm Archmage Savos Aren; a pleasure."

Ulfric took his outstretched hand, noticing that the blood had been removed from his hands and cloak as well. "Likewise." He noticed that the Dragonborn was hanging by the door, standing with an uncertain posture Ulfric had never seen her with, though granted he had spent less than a full day with her. "I apologize for the mess; I'm afraid your College had a pest problem."

"Ah, yes, thank you for taking care of that. Of course, you understand that with all infestations, measures must be taken to prevent the pests' return," Archmage Aren said. "How do you plan to do this?"

"Archmage, with all due respect, what, exactly, are you requesting?" The Dragonborn asked. "You can certainly say what ever you're saying without the symbolism." She respected the Archmage of course, but his methods were…abstract. She much preferred the rigid structure of the Imperial Army to the lax hand waving of Archmage Aren.

"I'm asking the Jarl to finish cleaning up his mess. Ancano was the best Thalmor spy we could possibly have at the College! Stubborn, self-absorbed, stupid, all the greatest traits of the Thalmor so purely represented in one man. I don't imagine Elenwen will take kindly to this, if she ever does find out." The Archmage strolled over to Ancano's desk, inspecting the small stack of notes. "Oh, dear," he unfolded one of the parchment pages, "it appears Elenwen won't receive this report on the ice wraiths in the Midden. How tragic!" He tossed the paper on the desk. "If the Dominion comes calling on Ancano's unexpected leave of absence, well, we shouldn't dwell on the dreary for long."

Ulfric clenched his fist at his side. To stop the Thalmor from coming back to the College, they'd have to be kicked out of Skyrim altogether, and to do that…would be more work than he could do deposed, disgraced, and in servitude to the Dragonborn. "I currently lack the resources to end the Dominion presence in Skyrim." That had been right under sending the Empire packing on his list of goals; Galmar had considered the two acts one in the same, especially after his spies reported an ancient fort had been occupied by the Thalmor a few hours walk from Solitude.

"Sir, the Empire is too weak right now to start another war with the Thalmor," the Dragonborn spoke up. "The Civil War led to more losses than expected, on all sides." More souls for Alduin to devour, she reminded herself, that much harder for her to destroy. "If you alligned the College with the Empire, perhaps-"

She could've sword the Archmage rolled his eyes, but it could've just as easily been the enchantment glow playing with his bright red eyes, half hidden under the shadow of his cowl. "You both think like soldiers, scrambling for the next body to fall before you." The Archmage clasped his hands behind him and paced around the Hall. "I suppose it reflects accurately, except this is not an institution of war. It is a place of _learning._ I will _not_ have these ancient stones marred by such messy matters as politics and the supposed glory of war.

"Perhaps," he continued, inspecting a soul gem left on the well in the center of the Hall, "if you considered every option, instead of the ones that bring you closer to whatever end you believe to be necessary, you'd find a better alternative." Archmage Aren made eye contact with both of them in the long silence that followed. "In other words, since neither of you wants to think of it for yourself, I'm asking you to hire a forger."

"A _what?_ " The Dragonborn exclaimed. "That's illegal!" She had considered that the Archmage may be losing whatever touch he had once had before, but now she was sure of it. A forger? Not even considering where she could find one skilled enough to mimic the elegant Aldmeri script Ancano wrote in, knowingly hiring a forger could land one in jail for a year at least.

"I seem to recall you mentioning something about being brought to Skyrim in a prison cart," Archmage Aren replied. The Dragonborn shut her mouth and looked down.

Ulfric realized he never actually asked why she was being executed. Sure, Ralof had his theory that she was crossing the border, but Ulfric couldn't recall the transport stopping to grab anyone, except for that horse thief. She had been in the cart before they were put on, not that Ralof could've known; the boy was struck unconscious by an Imperial soldier during the ambush and missed the first hour or so of their trek.

"We can hire a forger, Archmage," Ulfric spoke up. The illegality of the action didn't really bother him; he'd used forgers before to gain an advantage in multiple battles. He wished something more direct could be done, however. "The issue is finding one willing and able." Ulfric had lost almost every single person in his intelligence ring during the closing weeks of the Civil War, including his best forgers.

The Dragonborn scowled. "I can't do it. We can't, Stormcloak and I. There is urgent business in Whiterun that absolutely _requires_ our presence." She was _so close_ to ending this, once and for all. To getting back to her life. She shouldn't have to put the fate of the world on hold just because Stormcloak wanted to deal with his all his problems with a shout and a sword. _Idiot._ Even as she said it, she knew she-they-would be stuck hiring the forger, since it was Stormcloak who wanted to go around killing Thalmor and getting them into this mess.

Ulfric raised his eyebrows. What could _possibly_ be waiting for him in Whiterun, other than a smug Balgruuf and enough deer to feed all of Tamriel. Besides, hiring a forger and keeping the Thalmor's death secret may be best in the long run. The forger could feed false information to the Dominion, and receive intelligence for them to use.

But the Dragonborn seemed dead-set on refusing. She had planted her feet to the ground and crossed her arms, staring at the Archmage, who was looking rather lazily back at her as if she didn't have a glare that betrayed the Dragon's soul burning within her. "It would be wise," he said, aware of how her gaze shifted to stare him down. "I've created a valuable opportunity to collect information and deceive the Thalmor. I do not know why you want to go to Whiterun, but we can't ignore this. It could be the first step to ending the Aldmeri Dominion."

"And Whiterun will be the last step to ending Alduin," the Dragonborn retorted. "There is a _prophecy_ to fulfill, and this may have slipped past your thick head, but _I_ am responsible for saving Tamriel!" How blind could Stormcloak be? _He_ was the one that left Skyrim kingless and finished the prophecy, _he_ was the one that starting that dammed civil war, stalling her for _months_ and giving Alduin a steady stream of dead to eat. "How long until Alduin devours the world?"

"Suppose you save Tamriel, suppose Alduin lies dead," Ulfric countered, "and suppose you plunge the entire continent into yet another Great War because you think a prophecy that has waited thousands of years can't wait another week!" How short-sighted could the Dragonborn be? Nearly every single second she seemed to radiate self-righteousness, and now she couldn't even be bothered to think of the people she claimed to protect? Another war would be disastrous for Skyrim, and this was just the type of incident the Dominion could use to start one. "You certainly just had all Winter to fight in a war, why are you pressed for time all of a sudden?"

The Dragonborn opened her mouth to respond, and instead took a deep breath. She didn't have to justify herself to him; he was bound to her by the old laws, by his honor, if he had any of that left. But, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, Stormcloak had a point. Alduin had waited this long to devour the world; he would likely wait another week while she sent a forger to the College. "We…will get you a forger, Archmage.

Archmage Aren smiled gently. "If I find Thalmor Agents swarming my College, Nariilu, you can consider yourself expelled." He put down the soul gem and smoothly strode towards the door. "As quickly as you can, if you don't mind. The Thalmor are not a patient bunch."

He left with little to-do. The Dragonborn noticed her fists had frosted, either due to her anger of the time delay or admitting that Stormcloak was right, she wasn't sure.


	10. Chapter 10

Nariilu took a few more deep breaths and defrosted her hands. "Stormcloak," she said, not turning to look at him. "You can stay in Ancano's bedchamber. I don't care what you do, as long as you don't leave that room or damage anything. And, by Oblivion, if I so much as hear you speak, I don't even know _what_ I'll do." She set to work hanging her robes back in the wardrobe with much more force and noise than was necessary. Archmage Aren's spell had gotten the blood out of the soiled robes still strewn on the floor, and she moved to pick them up.

She was able to spy into Ancano's bedchamber, seeing Stormcloak already rifling through Ancano's things. Good, now she didn't have to do it for herself, she thought. In a few hours she'd ask him about what he'd found, after she'd given herself time to stew. Stripping out of her ruined armor, Nariilu put on a set of College robes and pulled a cloak over her shoulders. The chest plate couldn't be saved; she'd try to salvage the metal in it later. Malachite and moonstone weren't cheap or easy to get a hold of, so she had to save what she could to avoid weeks of going with weaker armor.

It didn't take a scholar to figure out that Stormcloak had gone through her things, seeing as how they were partially strewn across her bed. Nariilu wondered if he had found what he was looking for, and righted her things and put them away in various drawers and pouches about her bedchamber. She went to J'zargo's bedchamber and grabbed a bit of fruit, cheese, and nearly stale bread; he still owed her from all his meals she bought when they had traveled together a few months ago.

Nariilu hesitated before tossing an apple and a chunk of the bread to Stormcloak. It landed on the bed; the apple bounced off and hit the floor. Stormcloak turned towards the food at the noise, then briefly made eye contact with the Dragonborn, who preoccupied herself with a bite of her own apple. Ulfric thought the bread was wonderfully tasteless; it went well with the signs of Thalmor in the room: a banner with the symbol of the Aldmeri Dominion, a set of gloves neatly laid on the desk.

Ulfric made short work of reading Ancano's notes, mostly because he couldn't read any of it. It was either in Aldmeris, perhaps coded, and after staring at it for a few minutes Ulfric couldn't find any sort of pattern to begin to understand it. His other items were equally useful; Ancano had almost no personal items outside of a few extra sets of robes and soul gems. He leaned back in the stiff desk chair, hearing the wood groan with the movement.

"Anything interesting?" Ulfric looked up to see the Dragonborn leaning against the central well. "I've grown bored of being angry, and I'm looking for something else to waste my time on."

Ulfric was thoroughly unsurprised that the Dragonborn's mood had managed to change so quickly. "I don't know; I can't read any of it," he said, gesturing to the books, scrolls, and loose pages he had strewn on the desk. "It's in Aldmeris."

The Dragonborn walked in and grabbed a few sheets of paper. Of course it is, she thought as her eyes scanned the runes. "And now we have to find a forger who understands Aldmeris. Have anyone in mind?"

"None that your army didn't kill," Ulfric replied.

The Dragonborn hummed. "I can't believe that the Archmage is willing to hire a forger. I knew he was laid back, but to be this unconcerned with a death inside the walls and willing to go around the law to cover it up," she said. "Granted, Ancano deserved to die. A proper thanks is in order, once we figure out someone to write Ancano's damned letters for him." She threw the parchment back on the desk. "I'd bring in an Imperial forger if Tullius wasn't ready to demote me. Besides, it would be easier to simply learn Aldmeris myself than to deal with the forms required." The Dragonborn kicked the desk. "That just leaves the Thieves Guild."

Ulfric couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself for recognizing her wealth as ill-gotten. "Friends of yours?" Perhaps thievery is what earned her a place on the executioner's headstone.

The Dragonborn scowled at the desk. "I'm going to ignore that. They owe me a favor. I saved one of their members from a Thalmor interrogation. I didn't know he was a member until I saw him walking around Riften at night with a lockpick. Now, that's not too suspicious-"

 _Yes it is,_ Ulfric thought.

"-but then he offered to put in a good word for me with the Guild. If we leave Winterhold tomorrow, we should be able to make it to Riften the day after, and back in three more days, if the negotiations go well. That means that I can be in Whiterun next week." The Dragonborn idly ran her fingers along a few garnets on the desk and slipped them into her pocket, figuring Ancano wouldn't miss them.

"Why are you so eager to go to Whiterun?" Ulfric asked. He didn't believe that he would ever be so intent on visiting again. The last peaceful time he had visited was before the Moot; Balgruuf had expressed his lack of support for Ulfric's kingship and even called him impulsive, which Ulfric found quite ironic from the short-tempered man. And, of course, he sieged the city the last time he was in the hold. It wasn't in Balgruuf's nature to hold strong grudges, but some things were more unforgivable than others.

"I'm going to catch a dragon in Dragonsreach." She inspected a soul gem before placing it back on the desk and moving to look at the next one. "Then he's going to tell me where Alduin is."

Ulfric was speechless. Catching a dragon, of all things, was beyond ambitious and into insane. In Whiterun, a city of thatch roofs and ancient wood, a dragon would spell disaster. And to say it so casually, as if she was discussing the weather! Ulfric briefly considered if his siege would've been more effective had it happened during an attempt to trap a dragon, or if the dragon would have turned on his army as well.

"So, if everything stays on schedule, Alduin should be dead before Rain's Hand arrives."

"You've gone mad," Ulfric declared. "Catch a dragon like a rabbit? And I suppose I'm the bait!"

The Dragonborn chuckled. "The dragon we have in mind is Alduin's right hand. He'll want to bring me back to Alduin dead. You're going to keep that dragon subdued until we can trap it. You may be the only one who can, for a time." She turned and leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. "He could be anywhere in Tamriel, and I'm going to Shout loud enough to summon him from Akavir."

"And you believe this will work?" Ulfric asked. The Dragonborn nodded. "Jarl Balgruuf will be overjoyed with your plan, I'm certain."

"You jest," the Dragonborn replied, "but the Jarl agreed to it in Sun's Dusk."

Ulfric blinked. Ulfric had never known Balgruuf to put his hold in danger; the safety of his citizens had always been his highest priority. It had kept him aggravatingly neutral for most of the Civil War, until Ulfric had all but marched through Whiterun's gates.

Your Thu'um will keep the dragon occupied while I catch my breath," the Dragonborn continued. "We must keep the dragon away from the actual city. Ward spells can only protect so much of Whiterun."

"You'll see the hold burn."

"I'll see Tamriel free of any winged beasts. Dragons seek me out without me summoning them enough. It shouldn't stray far from Dragonsreach." The Dragonborn frowned. "I'm taking every precaution to avoid unnecessary risk to the hold's citizens. We've already made a plan for each possible outcome."

"Who is 'we'?" Ulfric asked. He'd learned through experience that knowing exactly who had laid the plans altered how well they would go. Balgruuf, though an excellent shield-brother to stand beside in battle, was not a strategist he would want to trust his life to.

"Unimportant," the Dragonborn responded. She stood up straight and moved to the arched entrance of the room.

"I'd argue that it _is_ important," Ulfric countered. "Balgruuf is an impatient man on his best days. He is no tactician."

The Dragonborn stopped on her way out of the room and turned back to face him. "The Jarl's housecarl and I were responsible for most of the planning. The captain of the Whiterun Guard, the court wizard, and my own housecarl also contributed. It was the mage's idea to surround the city in ward spells."

"You'd trust ward spells to stop a dragon?" Ulfric stood and walked over to her. He felt a cold weight settle in his stomach thinking of all the ways a dragon in Whiterun could go wrong.

"Without hesitation." The Dragonborn met his eyes and Ulfric saw the barest hint of a smirk flash across her face.


	11. Chapter 11

J'zargo heard the Shout, of course. So did everyone in Tolfdir's lecture. His lectures had been more boring than usual since the Eye had been brought back, and it seemed the mage had little patience for anything that wasn't giant, blue, glowing, and floating. It pissed J'zargo off; Tolfdir's lectures had gone from halfway interesting on occasion, to rushed summaries before waving them off to practice wards or magelights or some other basic skill J'zargo had mastered long before stepping foot in Skyrim.

The floor shook, and J'zargo rolled his eyes as Onmund nearly lost his footing. "Oh, is she back?" Brelyna asked aloud. It would've been an obvious statement, but J'zargo drew back his ears slightly. It could've just been the fact that he hadn't traveled with her in months, and therefore not heard her Shout in as long, but he didn't recognize that as her Voice.

"Focus, focus!" Tolfdir called, not looking away from the Eye. "You don't want to end up with impure metal!" J'zargo glanced back down at his lump of iron ore. The edges glinted a light silver. Brelyna's ore gleamed gold and Onmund's silver ore looked to still have flecks of iron. Brelyna showed her ore to Tolfdir, who inspected it briefly, turning it over once, twice, before handing it back to her and turning back to the Eye.

"Want me to do it for you?" Brelyna said out of the side of her mouth as she passed J'zargo on the way to the Arcanaeum stairs.

"Shut up," J'zargo hissed. She snickered and left.

General Tullius frowned as he listened to Brunwulf Free-Winter's speech. The new Jarl had insisted on it, despite the whispered turmoil still flowing freely through Windhelm threatening to burst at any second. It had taken all that Tullius had to keep the man from giving his damned speech seconds after Stormcloak's surrender.

"We must stand together, now more than ever! Yes, these are difficult times, yes, we may disagree, but we must not falter!" Free-Winter continued.

Tullius found it a waste of time, really. His men had to be stationed at key locations to keep Free-Winter safe from any threats, and Windhelm seemed to be built just to give any sort of would-be assassin an excellent place to hide in the shadows or perch on a rooftop. No wonder there had been a murderer running loose not long ago.

"I will do my best, citizens of Windhelm, of Skyrim, to serve you and lead us through these troubled times." Over half the City was squeezed into the Palace's courtyard, with more glancing over the newly made holes in the ancient courtyard walls. Tullius stopped listening as he stood at rest slightly behind Free-Winter. He had other things on his mind.

Like how he was going to court-martial the Dragonborn just as soon as he got back to Solitude. Negotiating for the release of the man behind the rebellion, the most wanted man in Tamriel, a treasonous murdering war criminal, was reason enough to him. That bitch of a Legate had somehow snuck Stormcloak through negotiations and placed him right at her side for whatever agenda she had.

Stormcloak should've died during the battle. Soon after, if not that, and on his way to the Imperial City for a good old-fashioned execution otherwise. Martyr was better than figurehead in Tullius' mind. People can rally around a corpse, but a corpse can't rally anyone, and damn if Stormcloak wasn't prodigal at rallying armies behind him. It seemed Stormcloak had a certain talent of escaping death.

Free-Winter wrapped up his speech, and, unlike any politician with sense in an unstable time and place, lingered to talk and clasp hands and offer condolences with the citizens. Tullius gestured to Legate Rikke, who walked up and whispered something in the Jarl's ear. The Jarl frowned and apologized to the crowd of people he hadn't gotten to speak with-Tullius realized with no small annoyance that he was planning on speaking with every single person in the Hold individually-and headed back inside the Palace of Kings. Tullius followed, along with the security detail he had assigned to protect Free-Winter.

Tullius returned to the war room, where he had spent the last day coordinating the Imperial hold on eastern Skyrim, no small task for a region that had more than enough small townships for its size and jagged mountains making it easy for rebels to hide or ambush any passing soldiers. Quaestor Casilia sat hunched near the back of the war room next to two stacks of parchment. She had been put in charge of writing the war reports that would be sent across the Empire. The finished letters were folded almost nicely enough to be called neat, waiting for Tullius to stamp them with his official seal.

He bit his cheek, grabbing the pile of finished letters and moving to the large map table. He studied it absentmindedly while sealing the letters. A few troops had been sent to the Stormcloak camp just north of the Eastmarch border to secure the rebels and set up their own outpost to catch any fleeing Stormcloaks looking for sanctuary.

Legate Rikke walked into the war room, stopping to lean against the map table with one hand. "We've established an Imperial presence in Mixwater Mill. No resistance. Jarl Blackbriar in Riften should be sending troops to secure the south of Eastmarch as soon as she receives word of our victory." She pointed out the routes the troops would take.

"Good, good," Tullius muttered, pressing his stamp down into a pool of hot wax.

"The celebrations in the Grey Quarter are continuing, still not violent. Jarl Free-Winter wishes to participate."

"The last thing I need is a drunk Jarl making a fool of himself in front of the entire city. Increase his entourage; don't let him out of the Palace."

"Yes, sir. And Galmar Stone-Fist has requested to speak with you."

Tullius paused briefly. "We don't grant the requests of war criminals."

"Sir, he refuses to speak to anyone but you."

"What could he possibly tell me? The Stormcloak presence might as well be gone across Skyrim. The Reunification is proceeding on schedule, without any Rebel interference. Any intelligence he has is useless to us." Tullius pressed his stamp on the last letter. "I'll speak to him before his execution. What about the other rebels?"

"They still refuse to swear loyalty to the Empire."

Tullius inspected the finished stack of sealed letters and glanced back over to Quaestor Casilia's pile of blank pages. "Kill them, then. In front of Stone-Fist, and leave the bodies in his cell until they swell. It might take a while, in this chill." He handed Legate Rikke the letters. "And deliver this to whoever's in charge of the couriers, Legate. Dismissed."

J'zargo preferred to study in his bedchamber. Lounging on his bed with a spell book was far more comfortable than sitting in the hard Arcanaeum seats and Urag staring at him as if he was going to make off with the entire library. Besides, he could use a nap after turning iron to silver to gold.

He padded into the Hall of Attainment almost silently, save for the creaking of the heavy door. Nariilu was standing at the entrance to the Thalmor's chamber, for whatever reason. Probably working herself up over the way his quill scratched against the parchment or something else inconsequential. She turned at the noise, and her face lit up when she saw him, not that J'zargo was paying attention.

"Later," she said to the Thalmor. Her tone was much less murderous than it usually was when talking to the Thalmor. Nariilu walked over to J'zargo, clasping his hand in greeting. "I trust it's been boring?"

"Dreadful," J'zargo replied, leading them both to his bedchamber. He set his bag down too fast; the gold ore inside thudded hard against his desk. "Nothing but the Eye. Still blue, still boring. A new apprentice, today."

"Oh?" Nariilu smiled. "And you've already given whoever it is a dangerous scroll, I assume." She chuckled.

"You survived, my friend. J'zargo has worked on them, and they should no longer explode. Hopefully."

"You'll end up expelled before Midyear."

J'zargo smirked. "If you do not Shout down the College first. You almost knocked over the Nord boy! What were you Shouting for, my friend? I have not heard the roar of a dragon in a month of moons."

The smile on Nariilu's face faded. "A very, very long story, J'zargo. But that's a tale for later, when I have enough time and enough wine to tell it. I'll be leaving in the morning."

"For Whiterun?" J'zargo's tail flicked rapidly. "Is it time?"

"No, no, not quite yet. Within a few days. I have to stop in Riften first." Nariilu held up a hand when J'zargo's mouth opened. "The same long story." She sank into his desk chair. "It has been nothing but long stories since I left. Please, for my own sake, tell me of the daily monotony here."

Ulfric half-listened to J'zargo's gossip, putting actions with names and thinking up motivations behind actions. He got the sense that the Khajiit didn't care for the mages much and cared for the students even less. Ulfric also figured that each anecdote was told with exaggeration that was by no means small.

He let their conversation fade into a background hum as he flipped through Ancano's journal. The unfamiliar letters blurred together quickly; he let his mind wander freely. The road to Riften was one of the calmer areas of Skyrim, if one managed to avoid the thieves that patrolled for merchants and nobles without guard.

Ulfric had made the trip from Windhelm to Riften often; the road was short, the weather was much more pleasant, and trade was simple and abundant between the two Holds. Trade was so abundant that Maven Blackbriar had sent a note with Jarl Law-Giver after the Imperial takeover of Riften that didn't even bother to disguise her intentions to completely ignore the Empire's sanctions on Windhelm and continue trade as normal.

But the Thieves Guild was another story. Anybody with sense in Skyrim knew that they based themselves out of Riften, but Ulfric had never gotten the impression that Jarl Law-Giver was particularly concerned with the Guild. On the few occasions that he outright asked her about the state of organized crime in the city, she would shrug and wave her hand, at best. Sometimes he wondered if the Jarl was in an alliance with the Guild, but seeing as she was in charge of her own city as he was of his, Ulfric had no jurisdiction to confront her about his suspicions outside of hypotheticals, which Jarl Law-Giver always denied with a laugh and a firm assertion that she was the only authority in the Rift.

The new Jarl, Maven Blackbriar, was not someone Ulfric had gone unaware of. The woman practically controlled the mead trade in Skyrim, and she was good friends with Jarl Law-Giver; Maven had often been present at meetings between the two Jarls, though she rarely spoke at them, save when economics were discussed. She was a brilliant businesswoman, one had to be to obtain her level of success.

"Stormcloak."

Ulfric jolted up, taking a second to come to his senses. He rubbed at his sore cheek, realizing he had fallen asleep on the desk. The Dragonborn placed a bundle of cloth and a bottle of ale in front of him.

"Salted venison and bread," she said. "Make it last, but there's more for when we stop at dusk. I hope you slept well; we've got a long day ahead of us."


	12. Chapter 12

"Tell it again, Dagur!" Kimund yelled at the bar from across The Frozen Hearth. He and Gavrellius made up half of the small group of Legionnaires stationed in Winterhold. They had taken up residence in the tavern for the night, discussing and speculating about Ulfric Stormcloak's visit to Winterhold around the tables.

The lone off-duty Winterhold Guard had joined the Legionnaires for the first time since they arrived in the city. Dagur figured it was a step in the right direction; he knew for a fact both the Guard held Jarl-if he even was Jarl anymore-Stormcloak in higher regard than most. They simply had held their families and lives in Winterhold higher and had kept their mouths shut when the Legion came looking for any Stormcloaks. The Guard gossiping freely with the Legionnaires was good for the atmosphere in the city; nothing made friends faster than scandal discussed over a few or more bottles of wine.

"Ask the horses! Maybe they'll tell you something new!" Dagur called back, smiling at the rise of laughter out of the soldiers.

"I've half a mind to walk right into the College and ask him myself!" Kimund continued. He poured himself half a mug of mead, finishing the bottle. "D'you think that means we won?"

"Depends on who you ask," Hilsla replied. She took the empty bottle from Kimund, adding it to the growing pyramid of bottles she had balanced on her shield, mimicking the Winterhold crest on it.

"The Empire, I mean," Kimund shrugged in between sips.

"Why the hell else would Stormcloak come marching all the way up here with that woman?" Gavrellis replied. "She probably smuggled him out of Windhelm, maybe she's his mistress-"

"Oh, shove it, soldier," Hilsla said, "That woman is the Dragonborn, and a Thane since before you and yours ever stepped foot in the Hold. Besides, she told me once that she's an Imperial."

He grabbed the bottle of wine in front of her, drained it, and set it back in its original place in one smooth motion. " _She's_ with the Legion? Where's her armor, then?"

Hilsla shrugged. "She was a Battlemage in the Great War. That's about all she told me. I've never seen her in Imperial armor, though I've only seen her around Winterhold a handful of times. Goes straight to the College when she does visit, mostly."

Gavrellis leaned back on the bench. "Never knew we had the Dragonborn on our side. Can she really Shout dragons out of the sky?"

Dagur came over to clear the empty bottles from the table. "Oh, surely you all heard that Shout earlier. I don't know what pissed her off, but the Dragonborn isn't someone I'd cross," he said.

"And now Ulfric Stormcloak is travelling with her," Hilsla mentioned, "and, of course, his Shout is fierce, too." She frowned as Dagur picked the bottles up off her shield.

"Not a pair I'd like to piss off," Kimund said. "I wonder which one of them switched sides. One of them, at least, betrayed either Skyrim or the Empire."

"So, which of us is going to try and arrest them for treason? The guards or the soldiers?" Gavrellis asked. The three looked at each other in silence for a moment.

"There aren't enough Septims in the world to get me to try," Hilsla replied.

"I think we can all drink to that," Kimund said, holding up his mug.

The dragon bones were still strewn across the road, forcing the two horses to walk through fresh snow on the side of the path. Ulfric squinted against the sun glinting a blinding gold on the snow, wondering when scavengers would be by to collect the bones. Already jewelers and blacksmiths were carving down dragon bones into intricate trinkets and weapon handles, sometimes trying to pass them off as ancient artifacts from before the First Era.

Stories of dragons used to charm him when he was young. Ulfric remembered his first trip to Dragonsreach as a boy with his father and being enchanted by the large skull mounted about the throne. He pretended to hunt dragons with the other children around the palace and studied ancient texts about the Dragon War to such an extent that he sought out the Greybeards to be able to translate the passages written in Dovah.

Ulfric's knowledge of the Thu'um originated first out of admiration for dragons and their influence on Nord culture and as a means of worshipping Talos. Of course, he realized the sheer power it had that the Greybeards refused to utilize. The Thu'um could be used for the good of all people, and Ulfric liked to believe that he had only used the Thu'um as a means to the betterment of Skyrim, the land of Dragon Priests and Dragonborns, the land of Talos.

He stared at the back of the dark elf Dragonborn in front of him and thought back on the stories his father had told him of the old Nordic heroes. All of the Dragonborns he had ever heard of, read about, or studied were Nords. When Ulfric had heard the Greybeards' Shout announcing a new Dragonborn, he took it as a sign that Skyrim would prevail over the Empire. He hadn't known that the Dragonborn was actually the Dragonborn until after she had left Windhelm months prior.

Ulfric regarded the talk of a Dunmer Dragonborn as nothing more than unsubstantiated rumors until he watched his Palace doors fly open from an Unrelenting Force Shout only days ago. Even then, he figured it came from Rikke, his old Shield-Sister, until he and the true Dragonborn sent each other flying with their Shouts to start their duel.

"Hail, scout!" The Dragonborn called suddenly. Ulfric lead his horse as much to the side of the Dragonborn's as the rope slack would allow. The two horses were tied together, because the Dragonborn claimed her horse knew the roads, and Ulfric's newly purchased mount needed time to learn them. He understood the chains he was held by, even if the eye could not see them.

A short boy in Imperial armor jogged down the road, his breath showing in bright puffs in the cold. The Dragonborn halted her horse, and Ulfric's stopped behind. "Hail, travelers," he replied, slowing to a stop as he neared the two horses.

The Dragonborn dismounted and fished in one of her side pouches as she approached the scout. "Legate Therel; you report where and on what business?" She pulled a folded piece of parchment from her pouch and briefly held it in the scout's direction before refolding it and returning it to its' pocket. "Reporting alone, it seems."

Ulfric examined the boy from atop his mount. The scout, a young man with a nasty looking scar across his jaw, moved to attention after seeing the Dragonborn's paper.

"I act as a courier from Windhelm, headin' for Winterhold and Dawnstar," the scout replied. "Ulfric Stormcloak surrendered and was taken prisoner."

"Lies!" Ulfric spat. The Dragonborn and the scout turned to look at him, the Dragonborn scowling and the scout looking more than a bit confused.

"Ignore him," the Dragonborn said, meeting Ulfric's eyes in a fiery stare.

The scout shook his head. "I know, sir, seems impossible, but I saw it myself!" The scout said, his eyes wide and locked on Ulfric, as if sharing his disbelief. Ulfric slid from his horse, ignoring the Dragonborn's sternly shaking head. "They led him 'round the city, chained up and all!"

Ulfric marched towards the scout, his shoulders squaring and his jaw lifting with each step. "Don't-" the Dragonborn started, taking a small step to the side to put herself between the two men.

Ulfric easily stepped around her, barely adjusting his gait to do so. "I have _not_ surrendered," he stated, "I have _not_ been defeated, nor will I ever as long as I or any son or daughter of Skyrim draws breath!" He towered over the scout, whose face rippled with recognition of who was speaking to him. "Skyrim will be set free from this Thalmor's puppet of an Empire, I swear it on the graves of all who have given their lives in the name of Talos. So, courier, report _that_ instead of whatever lies you've been given."

Nariilu eyed the two closely, frowning as the scout moved a shaking hand to the hilt of his shortsword and gaped up at Stormcloak. She let the silence settle over them and Stormcloak turn and stalk back to his horse. "Any spare letters, scout?" She said once, twice before the scout seemed to hear her.

The scout pulled a messenger's bag over his head and looked down to grab a letter out of it before resuming his stare at Stormcloak. Nariilu snatched it from his hand, breaking the seal: a symbol of Akatosh overlaid with laurels and an ornate 'ERT'. General Tullius' Imperial seal.

 _To Respected Jarls, Nobles, Officials, Legates, and Tribunes,_

 _The Skyrim Conflict has ended on_ _20th, First Seed 4E 202_ _with the surrender of Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebel army in Windhelm. Terms include release of all rebel prisoners of war provided they swear undying loyalty to the Empire. A fine to cover the costs of their imprisonment may also be levied against the rebels for up to 50 Septims each. This fine is optional but encouraged. Any prisoners that refuse to swear allegiance by_ _20th, Rain's Hand 4E 202_ _shall be_ _executed_ _for treason and conspiracy._

 _The Imperial Legion will be firmly established across all of Skyrim within days, and rebel activity is expected to cease posthaste. Advise all citizens of the Skyrim Province and near its borders to rest easy knowing that their livelihoods are no longer in danger due to the aggressions of extremists._

 _Drafted and volunteer soldiers of the Imperial Army should expect to return to their normal livelihoods by the end of Rain's Hand. Trade routes are now safe and encouraged between Skyrim and other Imperial Provinces, as well as between the Holds of Skyrim._

 _Glory to the Empire  
_ _General Tullius_

Nariilu glanced over the letter. "How many couriers did Tullius send?"

"A-about twenty, sir."

"Well," Nariilu huffed , "stay out of trouble, scout." She mounted her horse and placed the letter in her saddlebag. The horse picked up a slow trot. "You're going to make it impossible to keep you alive, aren't you?" She muttered after she determined them to be out of earshot of the scout.

"Would've made a damn good song if you cut my head off," Ulfric replied.

"It'll make a better song when we kill Alduin. Last time I was in Solitude, I stopped by the Bard's College, and turns out they're already writing it," the Dragonborn said. "They weren't writing one about you, death or triumph."

"You really think you can defeat Alduin, the World Eater?" Ulfric asked. "It won't matter how many you have behind you; the old legends proclaim him to be the harbinger of the end times." Tale after tale always somehow twisted its way back to the Firstborn of Akatosh. Every mention of him was either a warning or account of his power, wickedness, and destiny.

"I remember hearing that the great Bear of Eastmarch could face any odds and win," the Dragonborn said. "Now isn't the time to be defeatist. As much as I'd love to have another Dragonborn to fight alongside, I'm the last one. You're about the closest thing there is, and we're the best chance Tamriel has."

"He will devour the world just as he has before."

"He's been defeated at least twice times, now. Once by the Dragon rebellion and the ancient Nords, and again by me not too long ago," the Dragonborn said. "I had help then, and I'll need it again."

Ulfric chuckled. "If you defeated Alduin, why is he still alive?" He recalled the Dragonborn running for her life back in Helgen; surely she wasn't referring to then?

"He fled like the coward he is," she replied. "I haven't been able to track him, hence asking one of his Lieutenants." The Dragonborn sighed. "He's likely in Sovengarde. If so, we can't get to him until he leaves. Perhaps killing his second in command will get his attention and bring Alduin to us."

Ulfric thought on this. The Dragonborn was fully prepared to summon Alduin to Whiterun, one of the most populous cities in Skyrim, behind Solitude and Windhelm, and one that was constructed with much more wood than either. Not to mention that fighting Alduin's ally, and a beyond powerful one at that, would leave her and everyone else already tired, perhaps even wounded and dead.

"Do you want to bring Alduin to Whiterun?" Ulfric finally spoke. Killing his second in command would leave the World Eater furious, and after seeing Alduin level Helgen in minutes, he felt a knot in his stomach imagining the damage and death in Whiterun.

"Divines, no!" The Dragonborn said. "I'd much rather go to him than put anyone else in danger, but if he is summoned, the plains around Whiterun are sparsely populated. Well, there are many giants, but I've seen a camp of giants kill a dragon more than once." She paused, rolling the reins between her hands. "You may be right; Alduin might be unstoppable. But I can't afford to think that way, neither can you, or Skyrim, or Tamriel."

"If you deny the possibility, you can never be prepared for it to happen," Ulfric replied. A silence befell the pair with only the sounds of the horses' hooves and distant howling of wolves being heard.

The Dragonborn's head lowered slightly in thought. "And how would you prepare for the end of the world?"

The question caught Ulfric off guard. He figured there were three choices: revel in your dying moments, pray for mercy from the Divines, or fight against the certainty of the end in empty hopes of changing it. Ulfric supposed he would enjoy dying with honor, if he had any left, even against insurmountable odds, but kept his choice to himself. The Dragonborn likely already knew his answer.


	13. Chapter 13

Ulfric first caught a glimpse of the walls of Windhelm a few hours later, and even a quick glance send a cold heat of shame through his body. He forced himself to stare at the city, just barely visible over the low peaks of the mountains. He knew that passing the city was the quickest route to Riften, and the route would likely be crawling with Imperial soldiers, and his own citizens.

The Dragonborn suddenly made a right turn just as the White River Bridge came into view. He could see the bright red of imperial tents and banners dotting the bridge, dusted gently with snow. The road to Whiterun and Ivarstead, he recalled. The Dragonborn halfheartedly explained her detour as something about the conditions of the road through the hotmarshes. Ulfric knew that it was to avoid the Imperial army.

The sun had begun to disappear behind Shearpoint when the Dragonborn pulled out a map and a leather bound and strapped book. "Mixwater Mill is up ahead; we'll stop there for the night." She flipped through the book, briefly scanning each page until she found what she was looking for. "Owner is…Gilfre. I killed a bear that managed to get in her worker's house."

Ulfric frowned. Mixwater Mill was once the largest mill in Eastmarch, until their shipments had nearly stopped months ago. It was a devastating blow to the regions' economy; Mixwater Mill sent lumber and firewood across Eastmarch in addition to both Dawnstar and Winterhold. Anga's Mill wasn't able to keep up with the demand; arrows had been in remarkably short supply, and report had come in that soldiers were blunting their battleaxes by cutting their own firewood. A bear attack would certainly explain the sudden drop in production.

Sounds of the saw reached Ulfric before the mill could be seen, even though the shadows were lengthening and the sky was a deep evening purple above them. The red of imperial tents caught his eye before anything else, contrasting against the dark pine wood and white snow around them. The Dragonborn cursed under her breath.

"Don't do anything rash," she warned. "This camp is new. I wouldn't've planned to rest here if I'd known about it." The Dragonborn tried recall the post-war maps that she had been to distracted to intensely study in Winterhold. Small mills and mines were often ignored directly after sieges in the area in favor of more fortifiable settlements. It was a basic Imperial tactic; it was easier to control a majority of citizens with a camp in a populated area than with resources on the edge of civilization.

Tullius must have his reasons, she thought. Mines and mills generally weren't sites of camps or any permanent presence unless there was a high potential for turmoil in the region. Nariilu didn't know of any potential in the area; the small mill was the only settlement around for a few hours' march. Likely, the soldiers were like them: just stopping for a night before moving on.

"I'll stay out of sight in your wardrobe, don't worry," Ulfric mocked.

Gilfre had never considered herself to be testy, but that was before all this civil war nonsense. The past year had been one disaster after another, starting with her workers leaving not even a week after the request for more lumber had come in to support the Stormcloaks in addition to the usual increase in demand due to the cold winter months. At least that war was over now, if the Imperials' word was worth their salt.

Gilfre prayed that the Divines had kept all five of her workers alive just so she could beat them to Oblivion and back herself.

At least these soldiers kept to themselves, though she would've liked them a bit more if they had offered to help her haul lumber, though she felt the twenty Septims they gave her in exchange for the night on her land weigh down heavily in her pocket. She normally charged five for each night, enough that the average traveling farmer could afford, and enough to purchase a nice sized side of meat when she traded with a hunter. Half a week's wages, just from having a few Imperials keep to themselves for the night. There was no reason to expect anything else out of them other than trampled plants and maybe some more news.

She pulled the lever to the side of the saw and listened to it grind to a halt. Gilfre pulled her thick gloves off and rubbed her shoulders; picking the logs up to put them on the saw was always much harder on her than dragging them back from the forest.

Travellers were often seen passing through the Mill, seeing as how it was situated right off the main road from Whiterun to Winterhold. Seeing two horses approaching, one with a Dunmer in mage's robes and the other with a Man in finer clothes, was not something that particularly caught her attention most days. Gilfre still approached the pair of travelers; perhaps they needed a bundle of firewood for the evening, or somewhere safe to camp.

"Welcome, travelers!" she called, walking over to the pair dismounting their horses. "Anything I can help you with?" Gilfre stopped in her tracks when the man turned to face her; Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was standing in the middle of her mill with Imperial soldiers not thirty paces away.

"Hello, Gilfre," the Dunmer woman spoke, already counting coins out of a pouch on her belt. "We've met before; I killed that bear in your worker's house for you. My traveling companion and I are looking for safe rest tonight, if you'd be willing."

"I want no trouble," Gilfre replied, dropping her voice low. She remembered the bear, of course. Who wouldn't remember a bear that managed to get into a locked building? She remembered the Dunmer Companion less; there hadn't been much talking beyond an exchange of pleasantries and the location of the bear. "I've already got Imperials here for tonight, and corpses to clean up is the last thing I need."

"We'll be staying far from them, I can assure you of that, and I'll pay you extra for the trouble."

Gilfre frowned, thinking for a long pause. "No. I'm sorry, Jarl Stormcloak, Companion, but the war's already been hard enough on my mill. I can't have your death and others' on my hands."

"No one will be dying," the Companion responded. "It's nearly dark, and we have been traveling all day. We simply want a place to set up our tents and sleep. We'll be gone before dawn."

"Not on my mill," Gilfre said, "But just down the road, there's an old wolf den in the cliffside. It's been abandoned for years, but it should offer some shelter if you can't get your tents up in time."

"That should do," the Companion said, stepping forwards and placing a handful of Septims into Gilfre's hands. She wasted no time counting them; thirty Septims total.

Gilfre opened her mouth to protest such a high payment for not even staying on her land, but Jarl Stormcloak spoke faster.

"Thank you, Gilfre," he said, mounting his horse. "I'm pleased to see Mixwater looking so well; I'd been worried for you these past months. Your help is much appreciated."

Gilfre watched as the Companion mounted her own horse and the pair began traveling down the road once more. "Wait!" She suddenly called out, barely hearing her own voice. The 'travellers' stopped and looked back at her. "Jarl, are my boys alright? My workers, five of them; Karl Trollbeard of Ivarstead, Jorgi Blackthorn of Falkreath, Famor Windstone of Riften, Honmir Halfhand of Kynesgrove, and Torvid the Younger of Shor's Stone; left to join your army months ago and I haven't received so much as a letter in all that time. Are they…did they make it?"

Jarl Stormcloak was silent for too long. "The war has just ended, with no punishment towards any of the Sons and Daughters of Skyrim. If they are on their way back here, or to their hometowns, I have no way of knowing. Be assured, I will ask Talos to guide them wherever they are." He smiled down at her; Gilfre could see the fatigue just slipping through his bright eyes.

She nodded. "I'll do the same, for them and for you. Safe travels." Gilfre let herself watch the horses walk away for as long as she thought would appear normal to the Imperials, in the off chance they were watching.

Nariilu had trained herself to wake up before dawn decades ago. It was simply the best time to get things done, with few others awake to bother her. The shallow cave had been more than ample for a hasty camp, and with the dim grey light of the early morning she got to work tearing down the simple lean-to tents covered in sewn furs.

Stormcloak stirred soon after she began making noise. He moved from lying in a sleeping roll to crouching on top of it, reaching for the sword next to him in one smooth motion. She recognized the move as one that foot soldiers often adopted near front lines, when one second's hesitation meant an early grave.

"Easy, Stormcloak," she said, keeping her voice low. No use for excessive talking before the sun could be seen. "Not quite dawn, go back to sleep." Nariilu kicked dirt over the fading embers of the fire from the night before. She knew he wouldn't; even though Stormcloak seemed calm enough and had even sat down and relaxed his shoulders, Nariilu had seen the flash of apprehension in his eyes.

"You didn't wake me up for my watch."

Nariilu reached down and grabbed a small stone, tossing it towards the mouth of the cave. When the rock hit the ground, it exploded in a bright blue flash and left a circle of frost over the packed dirt ground. "Didn't need to," Nariilu replied. "Wards." She pulled out a cloth sack and rummaged around inside before presenting a wrapped cheese wedge to him. "We'll reach Riften just after midday."

Ulfric took the cheese, watching her as she methodically folded the furs and bundled the sticks they had found and used as tent frames against the back wall of the cave. He felt the nag of drowsiness behind his eyes that hadn't been chased away by his initial panic upon waking.

He hadn't slept on the ground like this since the Great War, and the memories of doing so were not fond. Ulfric had imagined that the dreams, the memories would fade with the years, but, over twenty-five years later, he could still remember everything, whether he wanted to or not.

The memories always came in the stillest of moments; when not even footsteps could be heard in the Palace of Kings, when not even the first morning birds had begun to sing. Noise in life, in war, was normal, safe. With noise, one could figure the position of almost anything, even with a blindfold.

Silence, silence was otherworldly, dangerous. Corpses were silent, predators were silent at their most deadly. One cannot prepare for the unexpected, the unknown, the undetectable.

Ulfric watched a few of the unsmothered embers glow a dim orange, suddenly aware of the flint and steel in his pocket. The Dragonborn had refused to use magic to start the fire the night before, insisting that he 'prove himself outside of a castle' while she finished draping the furs over the tent frames. As if she believed he had spent every second of his life being waited on hand and foot instead of losing years to bloody battlefields and Thalmor prisons.

She might, he realized. Ulfric knew almost nothing about the Dragonborn, aside from the occasional updates that messengers had brought in from the other holds: the Dragonborn led the defense of Whiterun, the siege of Dawnstar, Windhelm, Riften; the Dragonborn was named Thane of Eastmarch, the Rift, the Pale; the Dragonborn was seen single-handedly defended Kynesgrove from a dragon; at least twice a month since Helgen, something outlandish about the elf made its way onto his reports.

He wondered how much of it was actually true. There were multiple witnesses placing her at every major battle in the war, but to kill a dragon alone? She had nearly died yesterday, and that was with his help. Ulfric had decided months ago that such reports were greatly exaggerated; his personal experience with her confirmed it.

"Do you think we'll encounter more dragons?" Ulfric asked. He winced at the volume of his own voice, cutting through the silence of the morning.

"No way of telling," the Dragonborn replied, "but, don't try and ride it again if we do." She chuckled. "You're likely the first person in history to ride a dragon. You're either the bravest man I'll ever meet or the most foolish."

Ulfric had almost forgotten; riding a dragon hadn't even been the second closest to death he'd been in two days. He certainly would never try it on purpose. Ulfric ate to avoid responding, then set to rolling his bedroll and tying it to his horse.

"When we get to Riften," the Dragonborn said, securing her saddlebags to her horse, "I have a house you can stay at, and a Housecarl, Iona, to keep you safe. I'll find a Guildmember and get everything sorted out. We'll be out of Riften next dawn, if I can make contact."

"I'm not staying hidden away while you consort with your thieves," Ulfric protested. He expected as much; of course she wouldn't want him to know how deep in with the Guild she was. Ulfric figured he would still have at least some influence, and being publicly ousted as a member of the Thieves Guild would at least strip her of Thanehood, if not more.

Even if he never revealed her status as a thief, it was still a good bargaining tool to have. A small shred of power to have over the Dragonborn, even when she held many magnitudes more over him.

"Alright," the Dragonborn sighed. Ulfric blinked; he had expected her to protest against his demand. "You'll hate the Ratways, and watch your pockets, obviously. It's called the Thieves Guild for a reason. Come on, no use in wasting daylight."


	14. Chapter 14

"Honor to you, Thane."

Nariilu nodded in response as the city's guards bowed their heads in respect before sliding open the heavy gates to Riften. The loud calls of merchants advertising their wares was heard throughout the city, even near the north gate about as far away from dockside as one could get within the walls. It was a welcome change from the quiet sounds of Skyrim, as was the warmer air of the south. She hadn't seen any snow on the ground for hours.

"Come on, then," she said under her breath, keeping Stormcloak just inside her vision as she made her way through the winding, dim streets towards Dockside. She'd rather keep Stormcloak in Honeyside, where Iona could keep him from doing anything shortsighted, like murder, or keeping anyone else from doing anything shortsighted to him, like murder.

But, of course, the hardheaded Nord was unpredictable at best and outright predictable at worst. His signature tactical style was to confuse and overwhelm; an excellent strategy, even to an enemy that is aware of it. But aiming to overwhelm will eventually do nothing but overextend your resources and leave you open to attack from all angles.

The Stormcloak siege on Whiterun was nearly insurmountable. The city's walls barely held against his catapults, but that meant nothing once his soldiers began scaling the walls and catching the city guard, waiting for the gates to breach, off guard. In addition, a sizeable number of Stormcloak's army had adopted a ruddy brown scarf, just in between Imperial red and Whiterun tan. Nariilu wondered how many died believing an ally had just cut them down.

Stormcloak's tactics were also underhanded during his defense of Windhelm. Nariilu recalled being caught off-guard more than once as Stormcloak soldiers burst out of the many buildings in ambush. Many of the corpses she had seen being cleared from the streets had wounds in their backs, showing how successful the strategy was, for a short time. His army had still been severely outnumbered, but Stormcloak had managed to make the most of a horrible situation and give the Imperial army one last devastating blow.

Even more of his tactical prowess had been outlined in his Thalmor Dossier. Pages upon pages of hindsight analyzations of his tactics early in the Great War, his reclaimation of Skingrad, the defense of Weatherleah, numerous small skirmishes; in all of which he had led his soldiers to overwhelming victory. She had poured over the Dossier by candlelight in Breezehome the day before Whiterun's siege, memorizing each misdirection that seemed so obvious in hindsight, every tiny subversion of the most basic formations. Ulfric Stormcloak was a master tactician, even at barely over his second decade.

The Dossier seamlessly transferred into his capture, something Nariilu felt was full of half-truths and shameless bragging, and then to gruesome detail of his time in captivity, along with pages of his reactions to different torture methods, finishing with an analyzation of the techniques his 'interrogator' believed to be the most effective in leading to him breaking.

Nariilu found herself vomiting more than once reading the passage as she forced her way through it. She had passed the section without a second thought on both her initial skim of the Dossier soon after she acquired the three Dossiers in the Thalmor Embassy, and in her more in-depth reading before Whiterun's siege. Still, she felt it was necessary before the final battle of the War, especially if her plan went as she intended, and Stormcloak was allowed to walk away from the battle with her.

It was torture in and of itself for anyone with empathy; the Thalmor were overly fond of sparing no hideous element, and it wasn't difficult for her to connect it to her own time in a Thalmor interrogation chamber. Their interrogators had similar style, though Nariilu doubted that she had earned such a detailed Dossier of her time in captivity.

It nearly skipped over the Markarth Incident, save to say that it had proved valuable to the Thalmor, to the near complete instability in Skyrim. A shame, Nariilu thought. She had been kept far away from any mention of the world outside her interrogation chamber during the Incident. The various views of the people of the Reach were hardly impartial, and Nariilu felt she would gain a better understanding from the easily seen prejudice of the Thalmor Dossier than from the Reach citizens, each with their own hidden agendas.

From there, the Dossier was a rather hostile description of every semblance of a political move Stormcloak had made since becoming Jarl of Windhelm. The thick book was finished with a page or so on Helgen, and a scrawled note in the margin about herself. _"Nariilu Therel, assumed 'Dragonborn', -_ Dunmer _. May be used to undermine Stormcloak heritage and traditionalist values if needed."_

It was a useful tome; the comprehensive analysis of nearly every facet of Stormcloak's mind left Nariilu feeling as if she already knew the man. It also provided some insight on the probable Thalmor response once they caught wind of her post-war conditions. Though, she figured Ancano was a bit more hot-headed than most Agents, and Stormcloak was under quite a bit of stress and turmoil given the sudden upheaval of his entire life.

In hindsight, she really should've seen this coming.

As they approached Dockside, the eyes shrouded in alley shadow staring them down became fewer as the wooden houses and shops broke way to a maze of bridges and market stands. The symphony of merchant voices was punctuated by rhythmic chopping from fishmongers cleaning the days' catch, turning the water beneath the bridges a muddy red.

Nariilu went down to the lower docks, where the class divide in Riften suddenly became apparent. The homeless slept here, even in the middle of the day, and what merchants were set up here sold much lower quality goods. The fish and meat and vegetables on rugs laid out near the inner walls could be found by smell alone, the clothing that was sold was limited to undyed, rough looking fabric, and no jewelry could be found in contrast to the many stands that sold from simple bands to complex circlets on the upper docks.

The door to the Ratways was slightly ajar and pushed open with a loud groan. Inside, more people loitered near the entrance, cooking, gossiping, eyeing the pair as they made their way past the first chamber lined with small rooms these people called home. The stairs leading deeper into the Ratways appeared to be more uneven than they were in flickering torchlight.

"Keep a hand on your sword," Nariilu warned. "Desperation and Skooma is a dangerous mix." She was well aware of how out of place they looked; with Stormcloak's nobleman wear and her own glowing mage robes, they might as well hand out invitations for someone to rob or attack them. Her last trip into the Ratways had left her fending off half a dozen attacks, not including the Thalmor, since they weren't technically attacking her, only Esbern. She hoped they'd have much better luck, especially considering most of those attacks occurred beyond the Ragged Flagon.

The torches became further and farther in between, allowing large shadows to form along the edges of the wide corridors and inside the occasional rooms the corridors opened into. Nariilu was unwilling to cast a Light spell, no reason to attract any more attention than necessary.

"Hey." A voice rasped from just inside a hallway that branched from the main corridor. Nariilu ignored it and kept walking, but Stormcloak turned his head and paused his step for a second. "Yeah, yeah, you, hey." Stormcloak resumed his pace, turning back to face ahead of himself. "I got Hist Sap, yeah? Even better than Skooma."

Nariilu heard uneven footsteps behind them. The man had decided to follow them. "I got Skooma, too, if you want that."

"We're not buying," Nariilu firmly stated, not breaking pace. "Leave."

"Alright, yeah. I'll be here when you come back. Always want something when they come back." The footsteps stopped.

They passed through a number of chambers, each one looking familiar enough that Nariilu had a hard time determining if she had been leading them in circles or if she remembered them from the last time she entered the Ratways. She hadn't exactly made a map, though she wished she had. Aimlessly wandering through the musty halls for an hour had worked before, though.

A skeever ran beside her, close enough to graze her robes. Ugh. At least it hadn't attacked her. She paused just inside a wide chamber; a woman sat in the far corner mumbling to herself with a dozen skeevers surrounding her. Nariilu couldn't make out what she was saying, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. Still, the only way out of the chamber was past the woman, and Nariilu resumed her path.

The woman groaned over and over, barely audible above the squeaks of the skeevers. As they passed her, Nariilu granted herself a glance in her direction. The woman was being eaten alive, if the smell and glisten of blood and the wet noises from the corner were any indication.

"Hey!" Nariilu called, changing direction towards the woman, drawing her sword. The skeevers weren't phazed, even as she skewered one, two, all of them. The woman didn't react; she was too far gone to help, be it from drugs or a curse of Sheogorath. Nariilu shook her head, turning away. "Come on."

Suddenly, the woman began screeching. Ulfric whipped around in time to see the woman rise to her feet with speed and agility that countered her ruined body. She lunged at the two with her arms raised, aiming for the closer of the pair, the Dragonborn.

The Dragonborn held her sword in front of her, grimacing at the woman skewered herself on the blade. She kept flailing wildly even as the sword buried itself deep within her abdomen as she came closer and closer. Ulfric watched in horrified awe as the woman managed to tackle the Dragonborn to the ground even in her state, blood pouring from multiple open wounds and sores, staining the woman's ragged clothes a deep crimson. He quickly drew his own sword and aimed for the woman's neck as she hit and scratched at the Dragonborn's face.

The woman slumped down. The Dragonborn pushed her off and stood, retrieving her sword buried in the woman's abdomen. "Thank you," she said. Ulfric lingered on the ruined corpse. "Don't let it get to you, we'll likely encounter more like her. I should've just let her be. We need to get moving. Her screaming may have attracted someone else."

"How many like her are down here?" Ulfric asked. He had always thought that Riften seemed a bit too prosperous on the surface, with a smaller homeless population than most cities of comparable size. Jarl Law-Giver was always proud of her social programs; the orphanage, the bunkhouse, guaranteed jobs on the dock, all designed to give the homeless a bed and keep Skooma off the streets.

Off the streets, and under the city.

The Dragonborn shrugged. "A few hundred? There are more deeper in the Ratways, in the old dungeons. We won't be going that deep, but it's actually less dangerous down there, since everyone is half-dead on Skooma or wine. I've only been down here once before. The Guild likely knows more than I do; they live down here."

Ulfric doubted she knew the path she was confidently leading him down from one trip through the winding corridors. The Dragonborn was lying, either about her knowledge of the way, or her experience in the Ratways. "Once before, to meet with the Thieves Guild?"

"Not intentionally, but they had information I needed. I was looking for someone, down deep in the Ratways, and they helped me find him. After I paid, of course. They know everything that happens down here."

"Who? Why?" She had just said everyone here was on drugs. An old friend, perhaps, a relative?

"Are you familiar with the Blades?"

"Of course," Ulfric replied. It was their massacre that started the Great War, and the Thalmor had killed every one of them and destroyed their grand temples, since they worshipped Talos, though in a way different from most Nords. They were unavoidable for anyone wishing to learn about the dragons, the Empire, or Talos, and their comprehensive records had been a valuable tool for historians and priests before the Thalmor destroyed their temples and histories.

"Some managed to escape the Thalmor. One was hiding in the Ratways, and we tracked him down before they did."

"We?"

"Another Blade."

"How many are left?"

"Just the two."

Two. In his youth, the Blades had numbered in the hundreds. Still, two living Blades was better than none, so that was an improvement from what he thought he knew. It didn't surprise him that they would be working with the Dragonborn; in antiquity, they had been the Dragonborn's personal guard before they were the Emperor's. He might as well be a Blade, seeing as he'd saved her life twice now. He doubted the actual Blades could say the same, but their skills as bodyguards were legendary.

Ulfric had traveled to Sky-Ruler Temple not long after he left the Greybeards, eager for lessons the monks on the Throat of the World refused to teach. The Blades' training regimen was intense, both physically and mentally, though Ulfric was not allowed to directly observe either. Blades historians had delivered the requested tomes and scrolls to him as he waited in the grand entrance hall, listening to the sounds of clashing swords and shields and battle calls in the strange Akaviri tounge muffled behind the largest door Ulfric had ever seen.

The tomes provided a valuable-and detailed-insight into the history of the ancient order and Tamriel as a whole, as the Blades had had a hand in just about every major event on the continent since the Second Era, or so it seemed. The tomes alone had taken him days to fully read The scrolls were first-person accounts of the miracles of Talos, the first Emperors, and the ancient Dragonborns, very similar tales to the ancient scrolls locked away in High Hrothgar. The historian told him that the scrolls were copies of the originals, which were with the Greybeards. All the same information he had already translated time and time again.

Not exactly the secret knowledge he had planned on gaining, but Ulfric imagined the Blades kept those tales far from outsiders.

The corridor came to a sudden end where a heavy-looking metal door stood. The torches to either side illuminated a number of carvings nearby, all of them unreadable from what was perhaps centuries of being overwritten by newer marks. The door was embossed with a large diamond shape with an inlaid circle. "Well, this is it," the Dragonborn said, reaching to push the door open. "Let me do the talking."

Beyond the door was a large open room with a large pool in the middle. Voices carried from the far side, where torches flickered nearly as bright as sunlight. The closer walls were damp and dark, not unlike the standard Ratway corridors Ulfric had managed to grow so unfond of in such a short time. The Dragonborn carried on through the door and he followed a step and a half behind, just like he had since stepping foot into Riften.

A tavern, Ulfric realized, or as close to a tavern as anything so far below ground and so deep within the dungeon-like Ratways could get to. The few tables that were set up around a main bar each had at least one patron sitting and nursing a bottle of mead or a mug of ale and a lively conversation freely flowed, only barely dying down as the pair approached the bar.

"Looking for another old man? Or are you trying to hide this one?" The barkeep chuckled.

"I'm looking to employ the Guild's services, actually," the Dragonborn replied.

"Then talk to the Guild, not me," The barkeep pointed out a man sitting by himself at the table farthest from the bar. "Start with him." The Dragonborn nodded and turned from the bar. "Hold on, missy," the barkeep said, holding out his hand. The Dragonborn sighed and placed a few Septims on the bar.

The man sat in front of a half-eaten plate of fish and two empty bottles of ale, wearing a set of leather armor Ulfric had never seen before. The large circle table could easily sit ten or more, and seemed depressingly empty with just one. "Did I ask to be bothered?" He asked, otherwise not acknowledging them.

"I have business with the Guild," the Dragonborn said. "The barkeep told me to talk to you."

The man laughed. "New at this, huh? Come into the Flagon to talk to the Guild and you talk to the man who takes drink orders." As he looked both of them up and down, he gestured for them to sit across from him, and the Dragonborn complied. Ulfric remained standing behind her. He didn't trust this man, or any of the people in the room, really. For all he knew, there was a thief under the table waiting to steal his boots right off of him. "Oh, come on, Jarl Stormcloak, sit! The Guild owes you one; the war has been a blessing in disguise for us. So easy for things to…go missing during battles. Vekel! Blackbriar Reserve, three bottles, if you'd be so kind."

Ulfric frowned. He didn't like this man, who somehow managed to look both unkempt and tidy at the same time. His arrogance was tangible in his words; of course he'd brag about using the war for his own underhanded benefits. Ulfric had been well aware that anyone with sense had been making some move for a foothold during it: political, mercantile, you name it. It wasn't a surprise that a collection of lawless thieves would be doing the same.

The barkeep brought the three bottles and the man flashed half a smile. Blackbriar Reserve. The mead had always been exceptionally hard to get and the price had soared in the past year. A bad season enhanced by the destruction of one of the Blackbriar meaderies in the war. The Guild obviously had money, even if their tavern didn't show it. The Dragonborn motioned for Ulfric to sit beside her, and he did after a short hesitation. Neither of them touched the bottles of mead.

"Allow me to introduce myself, Dragonborn, Jarl. I'm the Guildmaster. Not one Septim passes through this city that I don't get a cut of, and no thief in the hold would even think about stealing a quill without my permission. In other words, help me and I can help you." He popped the cork on the Blackbriar Reserve and took a long drink. "Now, how can the Guild help you?"

"I speak on behalf of the College of Winterhold. We need a forger," the Dragonborn replied, "that can read and write Aldmeris." The Guildmaster raised his eyebrows.

"What, exactly, do you need forged?"

"Coded documents and letters, addressed to the Thalmor Embassy, to keep any Agents out of the College. We have handwriting samples."

The Guildmaster leaned back in his chair. "I'm assuming this is a long-term contract." The Dragonborn nodded. "Wait here. I've got someone in mind, but coded Aldmeris is not something just anybody knows, obviously. Even if the Thief I've got _can_ do what you need, there's no telling if you can afford it."

"Money isn't a problem."

The Guildmaster chuckled as he stood. He walked behind the bar and into a back room, disappearing from view. The Dragonborn sat with her arms crossed, staring at the spot the Guildmaster's head had just been.

"You had to kill him," she spoke. "That's a fact. Ancano was one of the worst examples of Altmer arrogance and supremacy I've ever encountered. If he wasn't at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts right now, you'd be disintegrated into a pile of ash. I should've seen it coming when I took you into the College. In hindsight, it may have been safer for you at The Frozen Hearth. Though, I suppose anyone could have slit your throat open while you slept, no matter where.

"Of course, dealing with the Thieves Guild isn't the best, especially if anyone finds out about it, but it's better than Thalmor flooding Skyrim over one dead Agent. I know you probably believe me some criminal conspirator, or, even worse, a Dominion sympathizer. I hope I can prove you wrong one day."

"You're making a contract with the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild. I'm not sure how you imagine that's not criminal," Ulfric replied.

"It is," the Dragonborn answered, "but if this is what it takes to prevent another war with the Dominion, which I'm sure they'll start soon, now that the Civil War has ended, then so be it."

"The Dominion has no reason to start a war. Their numbers are too low."

"Perhaps they were twenty years ago, but how many soldiers died over the past year fighting? Do you ever wonder why any peace talks never seemed to take place, any treaties died with the couriers that carried summons? The Dominion is coming, Stormcloak." The door behind the bar opened, and the Guildmaster stepped out before another man. "Now, let's see what we can do to postpone them."


	15. Chapter 15

"This," the Guildmaster said, gesturing to the Thief behind him as they both sat down, "is who I had in mind. He knows Aldmeris and he hates the Thalmor more than most. Dragonborn, I believe you've met before."

Nariilu nodded at Etienne Rarnis. She noticed he was still walking with a limp from his time in an interrogation cell, though the scars visible on his face and neck had faded considerably. If he was the forger, that just made negotiations that much more in her favor; a life debt wasn't easily repaid. "Should we take this conversation to a more private location?" She asked. "I don't intend to set a price with half the Guild able to hear my offers."

"Smart woman," the Guildmaster replied, "but I'm afraid this is as private as the Guild has, at the moment. I can assure full security of your assets from any of our members. It would be bad business to harm any of the Guild's employers, you see."

Nariilu sat back. "And you can assure anonymity for myself, my companion, and the rest of the College? I'm sure you understand that we cannot be attached to the Thieves Guild, at least publicly."

"You have my word."

"And how much value can we place on the word of a master thief?" Stormcloak asked. Nariilu kicked him under the table, but he had an excellent point. Stormcloak kicked back.

The Guildmaster smirked. "Almost none, but it's a little too late to be anonymous, isn't it, Jarl? Enough of this banter. We have business to do. You said you had an example of the handwriting?"

Nariilu nodded and pulled a folded stack of parchment from her robes. Five of Ancano's letters, about Divines knew what. She passed them across the table to Etienne, standing up to reach to his waiting hand. He inspected the letters for a long quiet while, occasionally flipping through the sheets and then back again.

"This is partially coded," Etienne finally said. "But the writing style will be easy enough. If I can figure out the code, I can do it. No problem."

"How long will you be contracting Etienne?" the Guildmaster asked.

"Hopefully, for a few months, at least," Nariilu replied.

"How many pages will I need to forge each day?" Etienne asked.

Nariilu thought for a second. She'd never given any thought about what Ancano did, except when he made it his business to find out all of her business. She knew he had spent most of his time either shadowing the Arch-Mage or writing reports back to the Embassy. "Five or ten, at least."

Etienne closed his eyes in thought. "Simple enough."

"We don't expect you to simply forge documents already written," Nariilu continued. "You'll need to keep up regular correspondence with the Thalmor Embassy to keep any unwanted attention off of the College. We'd also appreciate if you can pass along any information about the Thalmor to the Archmage, and to myself."

"Mimicking the voice of a Thalmor won't be easy, considering I have a brain and a heart. I would say you've just raised the price, but lucky for you, I owe you," Etienne said.

"Speaking of price, how much?" Nariilu asked.

"Well, considering he doesn't want to raise the price-you want to charge the base?" the Guildmaster asked Etienne. He nodded. "Fifty Septims per page, then."

"Forty."

"Fifty-five."

"This job includes a room and food for free."

"Sixty."

Nariilu cursed under her breath. Some discount, considering she saved Etienne's life. "Twenty Septims each page, and a silver ring with your choice of enchantment every fifty pages."

"Deal," Etienne spoke up, folding the letters. "It's a simple code, by the looks of it. I'll contact you some time tomorrow to let you know if I'll accept the job."

"What time tomorrow?" Nariilu asked. If they could leave by the afternoon, she could have this whole mess cleaned up in three days and be on her way to Whiterun. "And were?"

"I'll visit Honeyside when I've decided."

Of course they knew where she lived, Nariilu thought. With the negotiations over, it was a simple matter of waiting for a contract to be written; Etienne would bring the contracts if he decided to take the job. She gave her thanks to the Guildmaster and Etienne and grabbed the two bottles of Blackbriar Reserve off the table before walking back towards the Ratways. "Well," she said, "that went well."

"You do business with criminals as easily as a child buys a sweet roll from a baker," Stormcloak replied.

Nariilu lowered her voice to keep it from echoing loudly on the damp stones of the Ratways. "If I hadn't saved Etienne's life, we'd likely still be there negotiating with that Guildmaster. I didn't like the looks of him, and I'm not happy about making a deal with him. I'd rather be working directly with Etienne, but who knows if he'd have any honor if he weren't with the Guild?"

"Thieves lack honor from the moment they earn themselves the title."

"Yes, but I'd rather have thieves who at least pretend to have any than those who steal indiscriminately," Nariilu replied. The Thieves Guild had always been legendary to her and her friends when she was a child. Stories of the Grey Fox, who took from the rich and gave to the poor, had entertained them for days. As she grew up, she realized it was just hopeful thinking from the beggars, but it was still nice to pretend.

Now that she thought about it, nothing was ever stolen from her house back in the Imperial City. She and her mother had been poor, but, like most of the families in the lower-class districts, held on to a few valuable antiques. It's not like they were behind locked doors; locks were a luxury. "At least Etienne agreed to a small discount. Did you see the look on the Guildmaster's face? He wasn't pleased with the price. I wonder how much of a cut he gets."

"The forger was the one you saved from the Thalmor?" Stormcloak asked.

"A great coincidence, isn't it?" Nariilu replied. "I'm a bit concerned with how little value he places on a life debt. Still, we're lucky Etienne has use of his fingers." _Very_ lucky. Anyone that couldn't be of long-term use to the Dominion received the worst treatment and the quickest death. From what Etienne had told her, they had kept him in the cell for about a week. Obviously, Esbern was high on the Thalmor's hit list.

Stormcloak went quiet for the rest of the trip back to the Riften docks. She didn't think much of it; Stormcloak had been silent for most of their time together. The man selling Hist Sap and Skooma was pushier this time, but still didn't bother them much, or threaten them like other dealers Nariilu had met in shady places.

The midday rush was over in Dockside. The crowds had cleared out, though dozens of people still wandered from merchant to merchant, making purchases here and there. Nariilu led them across the bridges and to Honeyside, fiddling with her keys and trying a few incorrect ones before the tumblers finally gave and the lock clicked. "Iona!" she called. "Iona, I'm here!"

No answer. Not untypical; Iona liked to wander around the city and people-watch, or pick 'training brawls' with the city guard. Nariilu didn't care much; it's not like she was in Riften enough to justify Iona waiting at the city gates for her arrival. She slipped off her glass bracers, rolling her wrists to get used to the lack of compression. "Well, Stormcloak, welcome to Honeyside. I have a guest bedroom in the basement, just to the left of the stairs, and feel free to eat or drink whatever you like."

Iona had left out a bowl of dried berries and a dagger on the table. Nariilu popped a few in her mouth before disappearing behind the kitchen wall to grab her measuring string and scrap parchment from the dresser. She walked back into the entryway, where Stormcloak stood. His presence lorded over the room, making the humble entry and kitchen feel much larger than it actually was.

"Cloak off," she ordered, setting down the parchment and running the string through her hands, fingering at the knots tied uniformly down the length.

Stormcloak raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "I'm comfortable with it on," he stated.

"I'm going to make you armor, like I said. Ebony."

Ulfric looked the Dragonborn over. She had a slight frame unbecoming of a blacksmith, and though she swung a sword like a soldier, any muscles she did have were hidden beneath her mage robes, and soldiers were far removed from smiths. The blacksmiths he knew were built like fortresses, especially the rare ones who had the decades of experience needed to shape ebony armor. "Ebony," Ulfric repeated.

"Yes, ebony."

"You."

"I've been a smith for as long as you've been alive, Stormcloak."

Ulfric nearly protested; the Dragonborn looked in her third decade, just starting her fourth, at most. A far cry from himself, well into his fifth, until he remembered the exceptionally long lives elves had. Still, how does a blacksmith turn into a Battlemage? She stared him down, fiddling with the measuring string. Ulfric sighed, slipping his cloak off and draping it over a chair.

The Dragonborn gave him a slight nod before circling him once and wrapping the string along and around his waist, torso, arms, stopping every measurement to count the number of knots and write them down. "How does a smith turn to magic?" He asked, bending over slightly so she could measure around his neck.

"I started using frost magic to quench metals, instead of water," she answered. "The blacksmith I apprenticed under was contracted with the Imperial Army, and an officer saw me make a sword and practice with it. He thought a Battlemage who could repair weapons and armor if needed would make a great asset." She stepped back and lightly touched each knot to count. "Do you want a helmet, too? Of course you want a helmet. Bend over again."

Nariilu crossed the bridge back into Dockside, hoping that she would either run into Iona on her way to the Scorched Hammer, or Iona would return to Honeyside and see her note before the market closed at dusk. She trusted her Housecarl to get a good enough deal on the items she had picked up in her adventures; Iona had quite a reputation around Riften, and for a good reason. She was intimidating as hell and had the temper to back it up.

She also needed her ruined armor to try and salvage the metals, but she wasn't going to walk all the way to the stables and then back again just to get it. She had Iona to do that for her.

Balimund was working outside, grinding down the blade of an axe. "The fire salts are working well?" She asked when she judged herself close enough to be heard over the grindstone.

"As well as ever," he replied, checking the axe briefly before returning it to the stone. He chuckled. "What brings you, Dragonborn? Need some armor to replace those robes?

"I'd like to use your forge, and commission your assistance to make a set of armor," Nariilu said. "Ebony."

Balimund stopped the grindstone. "Not glass? You're switching to heavy armor, huh?"

"I'll need a new glass cuirass, as well. My Housecarl will bring the scraps of my old one later. The ebony set isn't for me." Nariilu pulled out the scrap of parchment with Stormcloak's measurements. "I have a new companion in desperate need of armor. I'm also willing to pay extra for a rush."

He took the parchment and looked over the measurements. "How rushed?"

"Preferably, by noon the day after tomorrow." It was exceptionally quick for a custom set, Nariilu was beyond aware of that. But, for two people to work on the same set, and really, she just wanted the cuirass completed before Stormcloak met another dragon or another Thalmor Agent. It would be nice to have a helmet and bracers and boots ready, but the cuirass would have to do if that's all they could get done.

"Asbjorn!" Balimund barked towards the open door of the Scorched Hammer. "Come out, and bring the salts!"

"Coming!" Asbjorn's distant reply made it out of the Scorched Hammer.

"We best get started now, with that deadline," Balimund said, standing from the grindstone and carrying the axe with him. "Help me carry the ingots."

* * *

"Mother," Hemming Blackbriar strolled into Mistveil Keep fresh from talking to a few of the city guard with all the confidence of a man who was newly immortal. "Mother, you'll never believe who just walked through the city gates!"

"The bitch-Thane and her new pet, Ulfric Stormcloak," Maven answered. "Hemming, dear, do at least _try_ to remain up-to-date." She lounged on her throne, with a smug Maul standing behind her. "It appears they've made a deal with the Thieves Guild, as well."

Hemming blinked. Of course Maul beat him to sharing valuable information with his mother. He had eyes all over the city, but somehow Maul had more. Stupid Guild members. "What kind of deal?"

"Frey wouldn't tell, damn him, but he did say that any forgeries we require will be cheaper in the coming months. It seems Therel has paid enough for our forger to keep Frey's big mouth shut for once," Maven sighed. "But, perhaps this means Therel is finally open to a business arrangement.

"Would you like me to arrange a meeting?" Hemming asked.

Maven hummed. "Let's loosen the pair up with a nice banquet, in honor of the Imperial victory over the traitorous Stormcloaks. It's not every day a war is won, you know."


	16. Chapter 16

Nariilu finally wiped her brow and said her goodbyes for the evening to Balimund and Asbjorn well after the sun had set. The armor was coming along nicely and much quicker than Nariilu could've done herself. Asbjorn was a prodigy at keeping the flames the perfect temperature for the ebony, a notoriously fickle metal. Balimund was much stronger than she was, and hammered down the ingots into sheets while she worked on the finer shaping aspects.

The deafening rhythm of their hammers and the harsh blow of the forge bellows made it easy for Nariilu to slip into a meditative routine. Hammer. Turn. Heat. Hammer. Twist. Hammer. It was well worth the ringing in her ears that would last through the night. The armor was as much for her as it was for Stormcloak. The idleness of waiting for Etienne's reply would have driven her to Sheogorath.

She would have worked through the night, if Balimund didn't pointedly mention that the neighbors would complain if they kept up the racket much later. The orphans next door needed their sleep, and Constance was much too timid to complain. It's why Balimund opened shop much later than other merchants, he explained.

Divines, Constance. Nariilu took a hurried look over her shoulder towards the orphanage as she made her way back through the streets and alleys of Riften. She really should check and see how the poor girl was holding up. The war had left an influx of children for Constance to take care of, and with Grelod gone…the children were much better off.

Still, it couldn't be easy for one woman to take care of that many children by herself. Maybe she should ask Iona to help at Honorhall occasionally. Iona would probably refuse, or, if she did help, the children would likely learn how to handle a dagger with more knowledge than they should at their first decade.

Not necessarily a bad idea, Nariilu thought, walking past a group of loud drunken men Talen-Jei was kicking out of the Bee and Barb. Drinking songs sounded from inside; it was late enough that the evening's leisure drinking was well underway. _Ragnar the Red,_ the off-key notes echoed through the streets. She hummed along, crossing the final bridge before Honeyside.

Muffled sounds could be heard inside. Iona was back, and, by the sounds of it, was arguing with Stormcloak, about Divines knew what. Nariilu opened the door, ready to intervene in case the two hotheaded Nords decided to settle their disagreement in Iona's preferred method.

"-in her pocket!" Iona said. The two were sitting casually at the dining table; if Nariilu was observing from afar, she'd have thought they were discussing something as non-consequential as the weather. Up close, Nariilu noticed the tension each carried, Iona, in her neck, Stormcloak, in his fist clenched on the table. They were so engrossed in their argument that neither noticed her walk in, or, if they did, neither gave any indication.

"And if she _was_ funding the Thieves Guild, there would be outrage from the other Jarls!" Stormcloak replied. "She'd be deposed!"

" _Obviously_ , the Jarls don't know!" Iona fired back, partially talking over Stormcloak.

"How could we _not_ know? I've inspected Maven's books; they're flawless. Not a Septim unaccounted for!"

Nariilu spoke up, sending a pointed look at Iona. "I thought I banned discussion of that bitch in this house, Iona."

"My Thane," Iona said, slightly nodding in her direction, "I was simply explaining the Jarl's…politics."

"According to your Housecarl," Stormcloak said, "Maven Blackbriar is nothing more than a lying, thieving criminal."

"Iona, I'm disappointed," Nariilu said, "you didn't mention how she's also two-faced skeever?"

Iona shrugged. "I was going to mention it eventually. By the way, she sent an invitation over." Iona handed a flawlessly folded letter to Nariilu. "It seems you've been invited to feast with her."

Nariilu looked over the letter. The broken wax seal had been embossed with the Blackbriar crest, now overlain with the symbol of Riften. She blinked at the text; Maven's own looping handwriting, normally reserved for signatures and direct complaints to General Tullius, that the soldiers were interrupting her mead distribution. This was important to her, if she risked her delicate little fingers penning her own letter.

 _Thane Therel and Ulfric Stormcloak,_

 _It is my distinct pleasure as Jarl of Riften to invite the both of you to a banquet held tomorrow, 24th, First Seed 4E 202 at Mistveil Keep. The pleasure of your company will shine a light on this new era in Skyrim's history, and will strengthen the bonds between old friends and new allies. Please arrive between 6:30 and 7:30. Dinner will be served at 8. Formal attire required._

 _I look forwards to welcoming you into my home,_

 _Jarl Maven Blackbriar of Riften_

"Stormcloak," Nariilu said, ripping the invitation in two, "how familiar you with Maven Blackbriar?"

"I've known Maven for a long time," Stormcloak said, some of the tension leaving him. "Excellent businesswoman. I'm not surprised the Empire made her Jarl; she's been controlling the economy in the Rift for years. She's always taken a harsh stance on thieves, and would _never_ associate with the Guild-then again, I assumed the great Dragonborn wouldn't stoop so low, either."

"You met with the Guild?" Iona asked. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes narrowed. Nariilu knew how much she hated the Guild, and anyone else who relied on underhanded tactics to get what they wanted. Iona liked to do things up close and personal, and with a large audience, like when she broke a pickpocket's arm in the middle of the market.

"It's a very long story, Iona," Nariilu answered. "The College of Winterhold found themselves in need of a forger to keep the Dominion away. I won't tell you more in case the Thalmor come asking, but know that I'd never associate with those lowlifes if it wasn't for the good of everyone." Iona huffed, but her brow returned to its normal state.

Stormcloak wasn't wrong; any thief that was unfortunate enough to get caught stealing from her company had their hands cut off, if they were lucky. Maven was publicly against any sort of crime, going as far to say that she would 'rid the city of its evil menace' in her speech when she first became Jarl. It wasn't hard to understand why he believed her to be completely innocent, especially since she was so important to the economy.

Still, it wasn't hard to figure that she was lining the pockets of the Thieves Guild. Every merchant in town had to pay 'protection' to the Thieves Guild, or they would find their inventory missing soon after. Every merchant, except the Blackbriar Meadery. She had watched Balimund pay off a Thief more than once. Payments were due every few days, he said. It had only taken a short conversation with the barkeep at the Meadery to confirm that they never made such payments, but he refused to say much more.

Nariilu herself had witnessed Maven strolling through the middle of the city, chatting with someone in full Guild armor. Never mind that Maven had all but confirmed it during the same private brunch that she had proclaimed Nariilu to be 'lowborn scum'.

"We've been on good terms, even throughout the war," Stormcloak continued. "I've never heard such accusation against Maven, even from her competitors. In my experience, she's a kind woman, and I'm sure the other Jarls and merchants she's traded with would agree."

"Let's discuss this over a fine mead," Nariilu said, snatching one of the bottles of Blackbriar Reserve off the mantle. "This one will do, from the Thieves Guildmaster's own collection." She set out three mugs and poured the drinks. "Stormcloak, I'm sure you and I have had _vastly_ different interactions with Maven. Given that she's not a woman that you should refuse an invitation from, for multiple reasons, it seems like the three of us are going to be her guests tomorrow."

"With all due respect-" Iona protested.

"You're going, Iona." Nariilu paused to take a long drink. "She's not going to try and kill us."

Ulfric frowned. He had considered Maven a much needed ally for a long time. Throughout the war, she had been secretly funding his army where she could; slipping a mead barrel full of arrows through an Imperial blockade, "accidentally" directing a cart of rations right to the camp in Dawnstar, all alluded to in her personal letters to him. She had supported him, and when she was made Jarl, Ulfric was overjoyed that one of his allies had crept past the Empire.

From the looks of her invitation, it was a friendship that Maven intended to continue, even given his current position. Ulfric was beyond grateful to this woman he owed so much to. If he ever found himself able to attempt to regain his throne, he had little doubt that Maven would help him in some way.

Perhaps that was why the Dragonborn disliked her. She may have found out about Maven's assistance to his cause, and, obviously, his cause wasn't something the Dragonborn supported.

"Stormcloak," the Dragonborn continued, "All you need to know is that Maven Blackbriar has her hands in every pocket that matters in Skyrim, except mine. I won't play by her backwards rules, and she doesn't like that. I'm not scared of her and her connections, and she can't touch me now that I've made a name for myself in every Hold."

"I don't believe you," Ulfric said. "She's helped me in the past, too many times to count. I may very well owe her my life."

The Dragonborn snorted. "Let me guess, she was aiding your cause? Please, the bitch is probably funding the Thalmor. I can't tell you the number of invoices I saw in Castle Dour with Blackbriar written somewhere on them. If anything, she wanted the war to go on longer so she could keep squeezing money out of the Empire. How much did she charge you for her help?"

"Nothing."

"Yet."

There was no way Maven Blackbriar would have funded the Empire. The rising taxes in recent years had left her openly complaining about the Emperor's inane financial policies at any meeting they had both been at. She was very outspoken about the need for Skyrim's economy to be more independent, Ulfric had adapted some of her rants into his created policies for his Skyrim.

Not that it mattered now.

"She called me a milk-drinker," Iona mentioned, "because I refused to be her mercenary after she killed the last Thane I was appointed to. Not directly, of course, but its no coincidence the Dark Brotherhood killed him a week after he sold Goldenglow Estate to someone other than Maven."

"That's not much proof," Ulfric said. Now they were accusing Maven of working with the Dark Brotherhood, and it was well known that the ruins of the assassins' hideouts had been discovered throughout the Great War, others had been raided by bandits and rioting citizens. "The Dark Brotherhood has been destroyed for years."

"I pulled a contract off the assassin's corpse," Iona said. "Death comes for all of Maven's rivals, soon enough. How many times does it have to happen before it's not a coincidence?"

"Don't be naïve, Stormcloak," the Dragonborn said. "Nothing is ever destroyed, least of all anything with evil at its very core. I'm sure she'll show her true colors tomorrow in some hideous opulence. One time, after I'd just cleared out a cave full of Skooma dealers and bandits for the Jarl-Jarl Law-Giver, not that bitch on the throne now-Maven implied that I'd only known where to find the cave because I was working with them. It wasn't true, of course. Then, at my Thanehood ceremony-"

"Alright, I get it," Ulfric cut her off. The Dragonborn seemed to ramble at the strangest times, be it now about how Maven had wronged her on what seemed to be little more than petty squabbles, or earlier on the road when she described at legnth about how a bird had once followed her inside a barrow and landed on a Draugr. It was best to get her to shut up now before she launched into a full account of every single encounter she'd ever had with Maven Blackbriar. "You hate her."

The Dragonborn held up her palms with a slight smile. "I hate the bitch, yes. I'm glad you understand. I doubt we'll come to physical blows tomorrow evening, but, if that does happen, please join in on _my_ side and not hers."

* * *

Nariilu didn't think she could get much more pissed off than she already was about having to go to Maven's little party, but having to stop working on Stormcloak's armor a few hours early in order to get ready for Maven's little party was about to push her over the edge. If she didn't get it finished by the time they left for Winterhold-

Oh, shit.

She had completely forgotten about the entire reason they had come to Riften. Nariilu hit herself on the forehead as she picked up her pace back to Honeyside. Hopefully she hadn't missed Etienne; Iona was out selling the loot she had picked up since her last stop in Riften a few weeks ago, before the beginnings of the siege on Windhelm. She had taken Stormcloak with her, both to keep an eye on him and get him a proper outfit for the evening. Her home was empty, and though she didn't keep anything particularly valuable in Honeyside, there were a few weapons and ingredients she didn't want to leave alone with a Thief or two.

Nariilu swore to the Divines, as she unlocked her door, a good sign in her opinion, if she found anyone that wasn't Iona or Stormcloak in her house, she'd Shout them halfway to Markarth.

"It's about time." Etienne Rarnis lounged at her table, tossing the last of her dried berries in his mouth.

"Did you break in?" Nariilu felt a flash of cold on her fingertips and wiggled her fingers to try and dispel the magic.

"Obviously," Etienne replied. He sat up straighter in the chair. "Anyways, I'm here with the contract. It's pretty short; I didn't want to write any more than that since I'll likely be writing a lot in the coming months." He passed a roll of parchment to Nariilu.

She looked over the parchment carefully for any tiny letters or smears in the ink that could put her and the College in complete bankruptcy. Nothing, other than a small clause about the value of Etienne's own life and hands, if he should find himself dead or otherwise unable to forge. Apparently, the loss of his quill hand would cost fifty thousand Septims, at the very least.

As long as the College kept him safe, which wouldn't be too hard, as long as J'zargo didn't blow him up. Even if something happened, Restoration magic could fix most things that went wrong. Nariilu signed the contract. "How soon can you be ready to leave for Winterhold?"

"The day after tomorrow," Etienne said, taking the contract and slipping it into a hidden pocket on his armor. "I have to finish another job, first."

Those few hours could cost them. "Then we leave at dawn," Nariilu said. "Do you need a horse?"

Etienne paused, grimacing. "I can't ride horses anymore. My leg…" Etienne trailed off. "Well, you saw."

Nariilu had seen, and was more familiar with the technique than she'd let Etienne know. The Thalmor had begun breaking one bone at a time, trying to get information that Etienne didn't have. She wondered how much healing he'd had since then. She'd barely been able to get him walking out of the cells with what little restoration magic she knew and ended up half-carrying him to Solitude. "A carriage, then?"

He nodded.

"Good." A carriage could travel through the night, and put them back on schedule. It was just a matter of getting her own horses there at the same time; they weren't built the same as the carriage horses, and wouldn't be able to travel non-stop for that long. Perhaps she could hire a courier, or send Iona with them to Winterhold? She'd figure it out later. "I suggest you go finish your other job so we can depart on schedule."

* * *

Nariilu held her breath as Iona tightened the lacing on her dress. She hated wearing these party gowns; she'd barely be able to Shout if she had to. Maven would likely call her poor for wearing the same dress for a second time, that is, if she remembered the dress from her Thanehood ceremony. Iona wrapped the cording around itself and hid the knot with an ornate sash around Nariilu's waist. "Thank you, Iona."

"Anything else, my Thane?"

"Make sure Stormcloak knows how to dress himself." Nariilu slipped her Amulet of Talos beneath her bodice. She opened her jewelry drawer and picked another amulet at random, shaking the chain free of any tangles. Iona disappeared down the stairs as Nariilu clasped on a sapphire necklace.

She pulled her cloak over her shoulders, a matching fur lined thing that did little to keep out the chill. At least Mistveil was always uncomfortably warm. Distant conversation floated from the basement. Hopefully, they could leave soon and get the night over with. Nariilu picked through her amulets for something that didn't look too feminine for Stormcloak to wear.

Finally, Iona and Stormcloak emerged. Iona was in her ceremonial Housecarl armor: ornately etched steel adorned with gold. What Nariilu would've given to be in armor instead of the tight dress. She couldn't fight in this dress if she had to, since nobles seemed to have it in their heads that their guards and Housecarls could do all the fighting for them. It was tight enough around her arms and torso to restrict her movement in the name of fashion. Nariilu wouldn't put it past Maven to plan a party just so she could catch her out of armor or robes.

"Stormcloak, here," Nariilu said. She held out the necklace she had chosen for him; a simple ruby necklace. Truth be told, it would likely go better with her bright red dress than with his muted blue attire, but she'd already put on the sapphire one. He hesitated before taking it, putting it on and letting it fall right over his Amulet of Talos.

Well, at least his Amulet was partially hidden now, in case Maven tried to arrest him for blasphemy.

"Have you ever been to one of Maven's parties?" Stormcloak asked.

"Not one of Maven's, no." She'd never been invited, as a newcomer to high society. Maven never missed an opportunity to remind Nariilu of her 'destitute origins'.

"I believe you'll be pleasantly surprised."


End file.
